HIAGS House Group 2
by jilligor
Summary: A collection of freaks and geniuses cohabitating in a house on the campus of fictional Baines University in New York, USA. Their silly stories and twisted characters. Warnings: Language, reality-based fantasy, het/slash.
1. Intro

INTRO TO THE HIAGS

The House for Intellectually and Artistically Gifted Students

This story began over a decade ago with completely different characters, but my sister and I revived it with brand new characters (save for one, and eventually cameos from former students who went on to become famous figures in different countries). I only picked the "characters" FF allowed because of course we're not "supposed" to write stories of "real" celebrities, but I'll try my best to keep the surnames dropped and readers can either surmise (if they already know my interest) who they are, or by the sometimes obvious descriptions, who they are – or just imagine them as imaginary characters.

No offense is intended toward these people I've taken and twisted to my own imaginary pleasure, and I've nothing to do with any of them, so please don't sue! I'm already in debt and broke, and am painstakingly trying to find a steady 40 hour a week job (which is seemingly impossible, as I've been TRYING to do this since September of 2009). The depression and anxiety of these stressors managed to block my writing for ages, which was literally driving me mad, for even if I'm an amateur and have never had anything published, and some may not believe me a very good writer anyway, I just love doing it and sharing it with others who may enjoy it.

This is mainly comedy, but here and there may be tossed in some saucier sections (het or slash), and these sections, compared to my other works, are comparatively shorter.

I should also note that I owe a lot to my beloved sister for spurring on my interests, and encouraging me to get back to writing, no matter how pointless it seems sometimes. She's also felt the urge to keep this going to the point where she'll start a section out on her own and give it to me to keep going with. I owe her a lot in that respect – and many others.

Here are a list of the real characters within the story:

Director of House: Dr. Shannon "Traci" Doz (former student, now director, original character overall)

Students:

Simon A.

Simon N.

Chris C.

John M.

Noel F.

Jesse S.

Sendhil R.

Russell B.

Brad P. (co-director of House)

Ryan C.

Matt B.

Zach Q.

Orlando B.

Lily A.

Jennifer A.

Angelina J.

Katy P.

Rose M.

Remy H.

Gwen S.

Allison C.

Dee P.

Other characters:

Dean of Baines University: Julia D.

(Some) Baines Instructors/Mentors:

Viggo M.

David T.

Julian B.

John B.

Dean of Medical Teaching Hospital: Lisa Cuddy (obviously fictional character, so it's okay to use both names…)

Unofficial "Overseer" from Hospital: Dr. House (again, fictional character anyway)

Hospital Oncologist (and House's "partner" – in relationship and crime): Dr. James Wilson

Various and Sundry:

Omar E.

Gavis R.

Ben J.

James J.

Former House Students:

Armand

Toby

Jarvis

Lizzy (Lizard – don't ask)

Damon

Cain

Ewan

Brian


	2. 001 Simon

001 - 5 -

Simon

They call us "The Freak House" on campus. Not that we mind the moniker, but it's obviously meant with negative connotations. So we get a bit testy about it sometimes. Really, they're just jealous, or don't understand. And really, who wouldn't be jealous, or would understand? Unless you're a part of a group, of course you'd feel like an outsider. Though actually, I guess it could be said that we are the outsiders. We certainly are not in the majority of typical college-age peers when it comes to interests, abilities and stereotypes. I blame it on half of us not even being American.

The House for Intellectually and Artistically Gifted Students was started decades ago, mostly just as a means for Honors Students to share a living space apart from the rest of Baines University – which, back then, was construed as a "party school" – so that they could concentrate more on their studies. More an "Honors Dorm" than a specialised program.

Over the years, the numbers dwindled, not just because of lack of eligible students, but because it was seen more and more as an elite clique of intellectual snobs. Most students who were asked to join refused merely on the grounds of this label, not wanting to be seen as a "snoot."

Then it degraded into something even _less_ appealing: not snobs, but a specific program that catered to genuine original minds. The rules began changing, and with those rules came people who were not so concerned with social status or reputation, but with the opportunities this program afforded them. Honors Students were not a general possibility anymore – the regulations became stricter, and the expectations of those accepted were extremely high.

Over time, the general student population came to ignore, fear, or even loathe the House; this wasn't because of pompous braggarts anymore, but because the students who entered were…well…_freaks_, in one way or another. So I suppose the term is apt. Even if we, those of us currently in the House, are far from being "snooty" – hell, I'd say I'm one of the nicest guys I've ever met – the reputation has morphed into a generalised disgust of the oddballs who inhabit this specialised program.

We are not all geniuses, I might add. At least, not overall geniuses. Some of us merely excel in a particular field – hence the differentiation between "intellectually" and "artistically" gifted. I like to learn about technical gadgets (especially when involved with music, but that does have a bit to do with one of my majors), philosophise about existence, and ponder the intricate expanse of time and space; but I'm no bloody astrophysics nerd like Chris or a medical student like Jesse or Sendhil. I love looking at paintings and photographs (occasionally imprinting them permanently by way of needle and ink on my own body if the work truly strikes me), but I don't know (or care to know) all the aspects of the colour spectrum or what symbolism is contained in the works; Noel's the artist, not me. I'm simply a gifted musician and writer – which fits, as my mother was an English teacher, I was brought up on multiple facets of various literature, and was playing my first instrument (violin) like a pro at age six. My studies are in performing arts, so I'm adept at many instruments by now, including trumpet, piano, percussion, other string, brass and woodwind instruments, and electric bass; but I still prefer guitar, though violin is more my "professional" bent – the guitar and electronic experiments Chris and I cook up are more for just fun. As are the violin (or "fiddle") competitions Jesse and I have on occasion.

Though we all work very hard at our specific areas of study, I must admit – the best thing about being in "The Freak House" is how much _fun_ we have. I guess that's what happens when you take a bunch of intelligent, creative and daring freaks and force them to cohabitate.

I think I like it better here than I do back home. There aren't many people in Ayrshire, Scotland, who can create a single song with me which contains sounds that reach both the absolute height and depth of the auditory spectrum with handmade equipment. Is it appealing to a mass audience? Most likely not. But it's damn fun to play it.

When the House first started in the seventies, it wasn't actually a House, but a separate dormitory on campus which held about one hundred Honors Students. The conditions for getting in back then were much different and lenient than now. Our members whittled away each passing year as another new restriction was installed. This, along with all the mounting refusals, led to an eventual breakdown of the "special" students, while the general student population continued to grow. Hence, the building used for the "elite" members became a necessity for those _not_ in the program.

In the mid-nineties, the numbers had diminished so much that the "special" program was nearly closed down. But the Dean (for as many horror stories we've heard over the years about him) was so adamant about wanting the school to be known for pumping out as least _some_ particularly exceptional students that he managed to scrape together funds to keep it going. His insistence – and the ever-increasing daredevil stunts and experiments the students came up with each year – led to the school's purchase of a literal _house_ on the edge of the campus property, which had been scheduled for demolition. But with a little cash and a bunch of like-minded students who wanted to be (or remain) in the program, they spent an entire summer fixing up the place on their own, and the school was permitted to keep the property. And the title "House" became permanent and official.

Though this move ultimately gave the students a chance to try riskier experiments (like the creation of an actual electric chair by a female referred to simply as "Blue"), it also encouraged the perception of the group as being "out there," separating them further from the "normals." But by this time, the members were, for the most part, uncaring about this social glitch. They honestly didn't care if they were seen as "snobs" or not, though most actually weren't; they were too concerned about their personal and academic projects – and each other – to worry about what the other students thought of them.

Dr. Shannon "Traci" Doz was a freshman at Baines at that time, and ever since has become a fixture of the House – literally, like one of the original lights he helped install that hot, humid summer over a decade ago. He's never left the place, even after graduation – even as a _post_-graduate, he stayed on to oversee the new groups as he continued his education here (eventually earning his PhD). Now, he's not quite a "member" of the HIAGS program – he bloody well _runs_ the place. It _is_ his job, his career, besides writing for the city paper and becoming a Professor of Literature at the university. From what I hear, our eternally exasperated overlord had been quite a chip on the previous Dean's shoulder back in his own school days. And though he was apparently exasperated even when he merely "oversaw" the details of the system of the program, being the legitimate "Director" of it now has made him into something of a clueless, listless father figure to those of us under his weary wing.

But these days, Traci not only _doesn't_ have Dean Henderson trying to give him premature mini-strokes (or the other way around), as the new female Dean is looser and lets us in the House almost get away with murder, but he also has extra help…if you want to call it that. The "help" isn't quite official on _any_ end of it, but it does tend to take some weight off his shoulders…or add so much that he's lost it and lets things slide easily now, like the Dean herself. But I still manage to irk him.

All in all, no matter how much I enjoy being a nuisance to Traci himself (or "Dr. Doz" when not at leisure at home), I must admit a fondness for the bloke. Having to baby-sit, year-round, twenty-two college-age brats who think they know more than they do, simply because they know more than most their age, has to be taxing. Yet he seems to love this place like it's his own child – and since he literally helped build the physical structure of The House itself, I suppose that observation is quite accurate.

The way I see it, it's not only my pleasure, but my _duty_ to keep Traci on his toes. He can come off a bit jaded sometimes, and I simply can't allow that to carry on. Sometimes I get the feeling he's already seen or experienced most absurdities in life, so it's basically my job to figure out _new_ ways to baffle, befuddle and stun our "master" (though originally my antics were not _intentionally_ meant to do so; it sort of became a habit, and I haven't been able to kick it yet). He usually just seems – as I've already stated – exasperated by my behaviour, but once in a while I manage to stump him.

Of course, I'm also helped along by my unofficial partners, Russell (who, by looks alone, can shock even a relatively risqué student among the "normals" on campus) and Brad (who is so well-received among _everyone_ that he _could_ get away with murder; not to mention that he's so well-versed in the Art of Pranksterdom that he is our unofficial leader). I may create music with the likes of Chris and Matt, but all Russell, Brad and I ever create together is mayhem and evil.

I exaggerate; we merely get up to minor mischief, usually so daft that Traci is stunned – not by our misguided genius or absurdity, but by our random, juvenile stupidity.

But I started out stupid on my own. Take, for instance, the case of The Almighty Apple Juice Mix-Up.

Now, I've gone out of my way to assure that not all the students in the House are "snobs." There are, however, a few who _are_, though whether they were always like this or developed those airs from being one of the "elite" over the years, who knows? Jen is only one year ahead of me, but even after her only being here that one year longer, I detected a certain sense of superiority from her the instant I met her. So really, when she made an offhand comment about the state of my unruly hair and beard one day, she was asking for it. (Not that I really give a damn about my hair _or_ her opinion of it, but I'd been testy that day after being awake for seventy-two hours straight, fueled by coffee and caffeine pills, working ferociously on a piano score for a final exam, as well as tidying up a slew of songs for a new solo demo; simply put, her flippant remark about my "ratty, homeless bum" appearance was the last straw. Plus I just never liked her – I just needed an excuse, and she gave it to me in that moment.)

I knew by then that the pristine princess (who didn't even _belong_ in the program – rumour was that her father paid off the Dean to let her in, with only one major and average grades, but he _so_ wanted his baby girl to be in with the "elite," not realising that our "elite" is another student's "freak") was a health nut – because she saw herself as competition for some other females in the House who didn't _need_ to work that hard at being stand-out gorgeous or eye-catching in other unique ways (attractive depending on your tastes) – and only drank water, sports drinks, and apple juice (made from concentrate, I'm sure, the dimwitted tart).

I also knew that, from time to time, for an experiment or assignment or what have you, a few of our Housemates had to keep various specimens in the refrigerator in the kitchen when the one in the makeshift basement lab was full.

Obviously, these ingredients would inevitably lead to a fiasco, if you haven't caught on yet, especially when you focus on my state of mind at the time.

I was stewing all afternoon over how I could take my vengeance on the superficial bitch, which I rarely do except during times of extreme stress – as, I've said before, I was under then.

So when I angrily yanked open the refrigerator door to grab the non-fat milk for my twenty-fifth cup of coffee in three days, I noticed the special bottle marked with bold black letters, "JEN'S JUICE"…and the sealed bottle on the other side, tucked safely away from most eyes, bearing an official label which stated, "Jesse S. – specimen A13 urine, Exam Y1-S1-E4."

I am not a normal person anyway, as one may surmise already. But even more uncharacteristically vicious do I become when feeling irritable, exhausted, and just generally bloody _mad_.

Suffice it to say, I promised poor Jesse I would make it up to him by going to his professor myself to explain why his "specimen" turned out to merely be a bottle full of various digestible chemicals, largely sugar, and ten per-cent fruit juice (stupid twat didn't know shite about health, if you ask me). Thankfully, he was not reprimanded and was given another sample to use for his exam.

And, to vouch for his likeable personality, when I explained my actions and reasons for it, Jesse's fuming red face paled to normal again, and a great big grin split his lips instead as he laughed his approval of my intentions.

Jen, however, was not as forgiving – not that I expected or even _wanted_ her to be.

The Dean, however, (though the "newer" one by then was a much more lenient leader) _had_ to administer some kind of punishment to keep Jen from taking legal action against me – which would have been an entirely different mess on its own. So I took my sentence of a financial compensation to Jen and the rest of the winter cleaning the campus of litter with understanding – even gratitude and pride, dare I say…as most others in the House shared in my opinion that, well, it was _so_ worth it to think of Jen gulping down that chilled piss without a thought – and then her sudden disgusted realisation that her innocent apple juice was elsewhere, while in her mouth was…

That was my freshman year. Two years later, we still secretly plot each other's eventual, startling, preferably gruesome demise…

My point to that story, however, was also to demonstrate Traci's reaction: not a ranting tirade of the lack of maturity of a supposed musical genius nineteen years of age; nor a sad shake of the head and roll of the eyes; not even a slight chuckle of bemusement over one of his charges being such a blatant _child_ having a hissyfit over one silly comment made by a girl he didn't even care for.

I won't go through the details of how the violator's identity came to light, except to say I was not very discreet by asking her straight-out when she returned home that day, "Have a nice workout, Jen? I'll bet you really _took the piss!_" (Actually, on hindsight, I'm a bit impressed that she worked that one out on her own.)

But when Traci was called into the Dean's office and informed of my actions, he quite plainly gawked at me and demanded – not exactly in a harsh or demeaning manner, but more like mortified and flabbergasted – "Are you really that _stupid?_"

Despite my years being praised as a prodigy and a fast learner, a "genius," so to speak, all I could really do by then was shrug and nod, answering honestly, "Yes. I am."

I was lucky I wasn't thrown out of the House for that one, as it not only endangered one student's health and compromised another's academic work, but also proved how silly and juvenile I could become, perhaps leading to the idea that I was not "fit" to be there. (This even took place less than five months of my being accepted, remember – and set a new rule that freshmen were only _considered_ for the House _after _their successful completion of their first semester; they couldn't even _be_ accepted and move in until their sophomore year. I'm actually a tad proud to be the reason behind such a massive reconsideration of the rules; feels a bit important and all…)

In the end, I suppose – despite Traci's disgusted reaction – it wasn't considered _so_ horrendous for this place. In fact, the thought of expulsion from either the school _or_ the HIAGS program never crossed anyone's mind (except Jen's, I'm sure). It occurred to me then that these pranks, though usually not intended as viciously as I had, were not unprecedented or as unusual as I'd originally thought.

I knew because, after the meeting wherein I received my punishment, Traci put a hand on my shoulder as he led me out and muttered into my ear, "_Never_ do that to an enemy out of malice, Si – they can sue. Only _friends_ will get it as a _joke_."

This spoke volumes of the House – and the people it contained. From then on, I knew everyone was free reign, as long as my intent was not malicious. And with Brad's guidance and encouragement, and Russell's support and valuable contributions as well, we may go down in history as the three most popular – or over-productive, or juvenile – pranksters ever in the history of the HIAGS program. A badge we would all wear with honour and glee.

Dr. Doz himself is, of course, included in our list of targets. By now, he's come to accept – and even expect – it from us, especially me. Which kind of takes the fun out of it at times. But on the other hand, it's a challenge. A challenge to come up with more and more absurd twists and confusion, wreaking havoc and chaos, creating laughter from the rest – and a (rarely serious) death threat from the victim.

God and Traci both know I love a challenge.


	3. 002 Ryan

002 - 4 -

Ryan

Chris and I saunter out of Dr. Tennant's office, both in our own types of dazes, as Zach rushes off in a flurry to get to a class – or as far from our mentor as quickly as possible – and Matt lags behind to continue their discussion on space-time continuum (or something along those lines). I don't have a class for another half-hour or so, and Chris usually walks at a measured pace anyway – like there are other things floating around no one else can see that distract him. Today, I follow his meandering lead for no apparent reason.

Well, I _am_ a bit confused…not that he could be of any real help…

After several minutes of walking side-by-side in silence, I dare to interrupt Chris's mysterious thoughts. "Um…What just happened?"

We've reached the courtyard outside the General Science building by now, and various other students are hanging about. Some are preaching about the newest student-formed groups or unions, handing out pamphlets; others are cramming or finishing up assignments for classes starting in the next ten minutes; still others are merely lazing around on benches or cement steps, giggling over who-cares-what or snuggling amourously together.

Chris doesn't seem to notice any of this, because as he obliviously blows off a pushy hippie trying to stuff a poetry pamphlet into a pale, limp hand (unsuccessfully, so it falls to the pavement unnoticed), he merely glances up at the sky and says, as if this is his answer to my question, "A raindrop just landed on my nose."

I try to take a moment to apologise to the insulted poem-pusher, who is scowling at Chris's dark-clad back (nevermind me trying to explain to the poor bloke Chris's general hatred of amateur poetry), but I barely get anything out as I stride along beside the black-haired junior – my own age, but technically my academic superior.

"No, no – I mean, what just went on in Dr. T.'s office?"

He keeps his gaze on the gray clouds above us, uttering under his breath, "This potential rain may be a bad omen for my upcoming mid-term – if I don't actually open my book by tonight…" Then he sighs and answers again, his head still tilted back, "That was a group session with our mentor, Ryan. We've had four of them already this semester, not including our individual meetings. You really ought to pay more attention to your environment."

And just as he says this, his boot crushes a wayward butterfly on its thoughtless descent toward the ground – like it believed it could make it underneath and safely away before the foot came down.

Chris glances over at me furtively, but I detect a hint of guilt in his eerily dark eyes. "That was intentional. To prove a point…"

"Yeah, sure. No, what I meant was—"

"Oh dear," he murmurs, slowing even more in his pace as a worried expression comes over his nearly hollowed face. "This could be construed as yet another negative omen for my immediate future…"

I hesitate momentarily to allow myself to stray from _my _actual dilemma and point out, "But I thought you said you aren't superstitious. You know. Relying on fact and science to explain things…as I tend to do myself…"

He smirks and picks up his pace again, butterfly and raindrop apparently forgotten. "Superstitious as in _religious_, yes – but not in recognising potential signs from the enigmatic Universe to be on my guard. Science isn't as stable as you imagine it to be – which is why it's so fascinating. A human-constructed paradox."

I narrow my eyes, challenging him timidly, "Er, isn't that sort of the same thing? Universal signs and religion? The same sort of beliefs?"

He scoffs. "Hardly. Man created religion. Man did not create the Universe. But the Universe is interpreted by Man as He sees fit – or by _instinct_. That has nothing to do with religion. Science fits more – chemicals in the body, brains processing information, logic – or what we _perceive_ as logic – taking over and directing our minds and actions…"

"Yes, but religion relies mainly on faith, and one can argue that faith and one's instinctual perception of the Universe's…_actions_, or _signs_, however inexplicable, are one and the same."

Again, he scoffs – with more indignation than before. "Not if you're using the term `religion' in _today's_ terminology. _True_ religion, not in a godly sense, or a cult sense, but in an instinctual, faith-driven belief—"

But before we can get any deeper into this complicated arena of brain versus heart (or soul), I cut in, getting back to my original question: "Look, nevermind about all that—"

"I _always_ mind it," he sighs in defeat of his own nature – but I don't let his melancholy air deter me.

"That session back there – what the hell was that all about? I was following along for a while, but once Dr. T. and Matt got onto the debate of the Earth's inevitable course of straying away from the sun, I began to wonder how it had become a conversation about astronomy instead of the stuff about our progress in our courses and—"

"Oh, that's just Dr. T. and Matt overriding the meeting again. I usually tune out after I hear Matt say anything along the lines of, `Did you know…?'"

I smirk, completely understanding without needing an explanation this time. Many people do the same with me, but _my_ "Did you know…?"'s are usually more interesting…in my opinion. As well as understandable.

But I do feel the need to point out, "Aren't you studying Astrophysics yourself? I'd think you'd be all over that conversation."

"Normally, yes – but not with those two. I'd die from old age before they finished regaling me with all their own crackpot theories."

"You don't really die from _old age_," I attempt to interject. "Something eventually fails in the biological structure of the body, not just _age_…"

But he's not listening to me, going on, "At least in class Dr. T. sticks to the topic _and_ the _facts_. I'll admit that it could be interesting to observe or take part in their conjectures – but not when we're supposed to be focusing on our academic positions. Those two need to remember the appropriate times to get into those discussions. Lucky Zach was there to cut them off so he could get to class on time."

I nod in agreement, then realise I've followed him all the way to the cafeteria. I freeze and gape at him. He notices this and turns back to me.

"All right there, mate?"

I blink, shaking my head, and jam a thumb over my shoulder. "Erm…my class starts soon…I'd better head back…But, um…"

He tilts his head to one side, studying me curiously, and I can't help but compare him to a bird in my mind. "`But'?"

I switch my hand around to point to him in astonishment. "Are you…actually going in there?"

As if knowing what's coming next, Chris's shoulders sag and he rolls his large, round eyes. "Contrary to utterings from our Housemates, yes, I _do_ eat. Sometimes I forget, I'll admit that, but I'm not the only one. I can't help that I'm built like this – it's genetic! I take after my mum! My dad's half-African and do you see a speck of black to my skin pigmentation?"

I smirk; it is rather amusing that someone of his pale white colouring has a rather close genetic link to such a radically different biological aspect to a Caucasian. But genetics are quite astounding overall, so it isn't _that_ impossible for him to look like a ghost whilst his grandfather is – no offence intended – extremely _dark_. Though his hair _is_ naturally as black as night.

"Besides," he adds snidely, waving at me, "you're one to talk, you toothpick!"

A toothpick with a dirty mop on its head and an undernourished albino crow that got into the black hair dye. That must be what we look like to everyone else.

"Right," I cough, slightly embarrassed. "Point taken."

Then he purses his lips in reconsideration and admits quietly, "Actually, I was just going to get some coffee…but I _do_ eat…occasionally…Mostly pasta…"

I smirk at him again and wave goodbye, heading back to the science building we've just left – I'll be damned if I'm late for another lecture. Seriously. Word will get back to Traci quite quickly and he'll nag me about it tonight at home. Not that tardiness would warrant probation or expulsion – my GPA is spotless so far, and _that's_ what the school cares about. But him being a professor and all, he'll remind me relentlessly of how thoughtless and annoying it is for students to "wander in" late to a class.

But I never _mean_ to be late! I don't "wander in" so much as _stumble_ in hurriedly, out of breath and apologetic…but I suppose "_wandering_ in" surreptitiously through a side door would be less disruptive. I'm just always in a panic when I'm late, because I _don't_ want to miss anything. I'm a good boy! A good student!

It's truly not my fault that the _evil_ Simon (we differentiate the younger one from the elder by calling the curly-haired Jew with the big, offencive mouth "bad," and the pranking Scotsboy "evil" – there really is no "good" between them…) started sneaking into my room at night whilst I sleep to shut off my alarm. Simply because the first time I forgot to set it by _accident_, he found my manic scramble to rush off to a class which had started ten minutes before I could get out of the house so amusing, he wanted to see repeat performances.

After five times of this torture, I finally noticed a pattern, and the days he _wouldn't_ be home before I got up I was safe – he wouldn't have been there to watch! So the days I know he would be around in the mornings, I set my watch alarm the night before as well, so I could have a back-up plan in case he felt like seeing a show. I'm still waiting for the morning I come calmly down the stairs at the appropriate time to find him shocked and disappointed.

But this time I wouldn't be able to blame him anyway – I've been awake since seven this morning for my first class at eight, and three hours later, I would be expected to still be on campus. No bed to doze off in. So I'm fully awake and aware, and actually arrive to the lecture hall ten minutes early.

Ironically, twenty minutes later, it's our _professor_ who arrives ten minutes late.

Oh well. So go the characters that make up this school, I suppose.


	4. 003 Brad

003 - 4 -

Brad

It's always nice to come home at the end of a long day to find the kitchen in shambles, four or five people yelling to or at each other (whether with hostility or laughter), someone grumbling about needing peace and quiet to study, and at least three sticky notes on the door to my and Traci's side apartments alerting us (or complaining to us) about the latest racket reaching the house all the way from the separate "shed" on the property where most of the musical equipment is stored and experimented with (among other random bitchings).

Inevitably there will be at least one new sticky note a day specifically to me from Simon N. that I'm a wanker, or a tube, or a pratt – something along those lines. Once I came home to a mere "SPRACK." I've no idea what that was about, some new derogatory name or just a word that had been on his mind, but I suspected he'd been stressed from exams and that was all he could come up with at the last minute. I always know it's him, even just those single-word jobs, because he has very distinctive handwriting – "chicken scratch," I believe it's called. Or the last scrapings of a desperate dying person trying to scrawl out the name of their murderer in their own blood.

In any case, those small endearments always make me smile – not only because it proves his undying love for me, but because it also proves that, when it comes to competition, he knows he's still my subordinate. All he can come up with is unflattering name-calling. It's more like an homage, really.

But not even that can compare to seeing my girl (it's both demeaning _and_ alluring for me to refer to her like that, so she says, but she always smiles as she reminds me) on those nights she's _not_ too busy studying or working – or at yet another meeting of some sort. She's a workaholic, as are many in the House, but her efforts go above and beyond most others'. And it's usually effort being pumped toward a charitable or socially meaningful goal. Even with her challenging areas of study, she goes out of her way and devotes any extra time to volunteering at help centers and soup kitchens, group foster homes and orphanages. Where she gets the energy to do all of that, I'll never know, but I suppose it's the equivalent of some other House members' work put into their side projects in addition to their assigned ones. Her extracurricular bent just happens to fall under the "helping others" category, instead of creating more art or music or whatever, which is noble but understandable, considering her strong interest in social welfare. (She _is_ majoring in International Relations, after all, besides Poli-Sci.)

So when I _do_ get to see her, it's a real treat, a special reward for completing my own daily tasks of schoolwork, helping to run the House, keeping up with social and career connections, and just my generally busy schedule – though it's nothing compared to hers, or any of the pre-med students here. I thought being one of the few students in the entire _school_, not just in the House, to have a dual major _and _a minor would consume every ounce of me. Strangely, _Angie's_ the one who hardly ever seems to have free time. And actually, I've had more time my senior year to "goof off" than I have since I was accepted at Baines, even with the additional duties of being a co-director of the HIAGS program.

Despite all this, I'll usually wake in the night at some point to find my girl in bed with me – she ended up spending so much time in my room even before we started officially "dating" two years ago that Traci gave the okay for her to "move in" with me this year. She doesn't even have another designated room anymore; this year he actually put down on paper that she and I are roommates – and that's technically not allowed, according to House regulations, but the Dean hardly noticed when she approved the living arrangements, as if she'd expected it anyway. (And really, we're all adults here…age-wise, anyway…)

But Angie's barely ever home anyway, as I've said. Her belongings take up just about one-third of our shared living quarters; the rest – the "important" stuff – she takes with her in her overstuffed, multiple-pound bag (which can hold most of the contents of the Louvre, I'd wager) or her car.

And yet we still manage to find time for each other; though not every night, the times we _can_ actually get romantic (or just plain _fuck_) are satisfying enough to last us both a few days. Not to mention all the advances from and flirtations with various other House members – _usually_ in jest, though I'm sure some would be more serious about it if Angie was. But she's actually very dedicated and loyal to me, as I am to her. A sly wink, a sultry smile, a lustful but brief touch – that's all fine and fun. But neither of us have ever gone past a playful "snog," as the Brits here would call it, with the other House students. (And seeing as she's bi, drop-dead gorgeous, and has plenty of opportunities, that speaks volumes about her feelings for me – which makes me the luckiest straight bastard in the world…)

Not that I don't get my own flashes of interest from others – on either side, too. I've already promised Noel that if I ever turn to guys, he'll be my first screw. That seems to make the cheeky little tart happy (though I personally know an otherwise well-kept secret about where his _true_ affections lie – not that he told me, and I won't mention it to him unless he ever brings it up himself, but I can pick up on these things sometimes…but if he didn't get all giddy around me when we tease each other about this subject, he might just give it away).

Unfortunately, one very real and very _uncomfortable_ infatuation involving me is from Jen…who – I hate to say, considering I'm co-director of the HIAGS and shouldn't personalize something so trivial – makes my skin crawl. So our freshman year at Baines we went on one date that ended badly in my mind, but clearly not hers, and sort of put me off her anyway; it doesn't mean I should have to deal with her unrequited "love" over three years later. Traci knows it's a conflict for me, so he tries to step in whenever he can to keep me from becoming irrationally brutal with a charge. I could get into real trouble if I let out my _true_ feelings about her, especially intensified when I know how much she loathes Angie for being with me. She'll blame her distaste on every other thing she's simply jealous of her over (which are all valid reasons, actually, because Angie has so much Jen simply doesn't), but all three of us know what it boils down to in the end: Angie, not Jen, is with me, exclusively.

But even if I _did_ one day lash out and punch her dead in the face, I'm pretty sure the majority of the others would support me, maybe even cover it up. Simon, my prankster protégé, would especially approve (if not blatantly egg me on beforehand), as he and Jen have been feuding viciously since he was first accepted into the House. Words can't describe their hate for each other, maybe even more than my own somehow, but they only ever sit in a room together during meetings, when they're _forced_ to.

But I'd rather not subject the House members to covering for me, even if they'd do so eagerly. Plus Traci would have a heart attack if I compromised my leadership when he's practically begging me – even jokingly bribing me a few times – to stay on as co-director after graduation. We kid about it, but I know he honestly _is_ terrified of the possibility of me leaving…though, being a responsible leader himself, he doesn't _seriously_ let it show, and has expressed thoughts already on other future options. Right now, though the poor kid doesn't know it yet, Traci's eying up Jesse for the job next year…

I'll let Traci break the news to him if he comes to that conclusion at the end of the year. I wouldn't have the heart myself…

Besides, though I haven't mentioned it yet, I have to confess now that I _have_ been considering the idea to stay on another year. I may very well do post-graduate studies here, which would mean I would still be eligible to remain in the HIAGS program as Traci did for several years after his initial graduation. But God forbid I say that now and get his hopes up. He'd literally tether me to his waist just to make sure I don't go back on my word! So I'm keeping quiet about it for now, only having discussed it on occasion with Angie (who says she'll support any decision I make, of course).

If I _do_ decide to go that way, though, I'm hoping to God Jen will be out of our hair _completely_ after graduation. Maybe we'll not let her know even if I agree to it and wait until the end of the year to tell Traci, just so she won't have the knowledge, or time to enroll in post-grad classes _or_ the House again if she _does_ find out…

Then, even if I return to the House next autumn, I won't have to put up with these flimsy excuses she leaves on my door to meet with me.

As usual, upon seeing her request to speak with me privately about an urgent matter concerning an acting class we both take (drama being my minor, her major – which she nearly failed out of last year, putting her on academic probation for this semester…FOR GOD'S SAKE, IT'S HER FUCKING MAJOR!), I sigh wearily as I enter the hall between my and Traci's rooms, catch sight of him going over class notes at his desk through his open door, and grunt wordlessly.

Traci glances up from his work to see me holding out the note, two others in my opposite hand.

Rolling his eyes, he stands and takes Jen's request. "I'll handle it. I'll tell her you're, uh, busy or something…"

"Genius idea. My suggestion, if she insists on a real answer, is to ask one of our _other_ drama majors in the House – or just go to John, for Christ's sake, he _is_ our _professor!"_

He chuckles as he studies the note listlessly. "I'll pass that on to her – and maybe warn _him_, too. _If_, that is, it's a legitimate question or concern. Anyway, what else you got there?" he asks, peeking at the other notes in my hand.

"Oh, Sendhil says the hot water tap in the back bathroom needs fixing – doesn't stop turning on its own, you have to know exactly where the `off' position is to keep it from running."

"I'll call a plumber—"

"Nah, I'll take a look first. Might be able to fix it myself." I _am_ an architect major, after all; but I don't remind him of this, as it might come off as sounding snide.

He nods, then gestures to the other note. "And that one?"

I hold it up for him to see, but summarize, "Apparently, my mother was a petri dish hamster with massive piles, and my hiney needs a good wiping. He drew a demonstration using my alleged `mother,' as you can see."

He raises his eyebrows. "Guess Simon had more than two seconds to write something this morning…"

"I suspect he's started writing them all out at the beginning of the week, because I _know_ that kid's running outta here every other morning before eight for work. He wouldn't have time to write all that out, considering he sleeps 'til seven forty-five."

Traci nods. "That very well could be. They're getting more elaborate, too."

"Hence my hunch about devoting an hour on Sunday night to come up with seven new ones every week."

"But didn't one last week just say `toadstool'?"

I snicker at the reminder. "Oh yeah – but that was purely because we'd been listening to Rammstein the night before and he swore they kept saying that in one song…He knows German better than me, so I know he was just pulling my leg, trying to get me to believe him – trying to prank me, basically, which he knows he can't do…"

"But the boy's tenacious."

"Yes. Yes, he is. Tenacious, persistent – and quite imaginative, even if he did sorta rip off Monty Python a tad with this one. But he'll never defeat the master," I declare, holding up a fist for emphasis.

Traci waves me away as he settles back at his desk. "Great, oh master – now go plot your next gag so I can finish my lesson plan."

And, staring down at the crudely drawn hamster with the enlarged ass (it's no wonder he's not an art major), I obey _my_ master. Except the "plot" is actually a test blueprint for an assignment…

I'm not _all_ fun and games, you know – just _mostly_.


	5. 004 Dee

004 - 4 -

Dee

I should've known something stupid was going to happen today; the blue hair dye I put in my black locks only this morning had faded by mid-day. That's usually a sign to throw in the towel before I even get in the shower.

I think those are mixed metaphors, but who cares? I'm no Lit major, though some would argue I'm a _lit_ major…

Bad pun.

So I think staying in tonight will keep me safe. How dumb am I? The spooks will get me if they want, no matter where I am.

Yeah, I believe in "spooks," or bad vibes, or just dumb unluckiness, if that's what you wanna call it. So what of it?

Tonight I'm a good girl, studying my texts whilst the other two girls are out, and Noel lounges on Katy's bed as he scribbles away in his sketchbook. Dunno if it's for an assignment, but he's carried one of those bloody things around with him everywhere since I first met him.

Noel and I go way back, despite still being quite young. But when I was nine and he was ten, I accidentally broke his nose (only the first in a long line of these sorts of incidents – but the only time it came from _me_) with a big bouncy ball during a pretty fierce game of dodgeball at recess. I didn't _mean_ to hurt the sap, but he was an easy target, standing there all dumb and aloof, not paying attention.

He was a year ahead of me in school, so we didn't know each other very well, but that day I found out from the other kids in his class where he lived and went over to apologise.

Gangly as he was, he was also quite tall for ten years old, so a shrimp like me shouldn't have scared him at all. But when he came to the door, he actually shuddered, eying me up dubiously as I stuttered out, "Sorry for crackin' your schnoz." Believe me, "sorry" has been a difficult word for me to utter my entire life. So for me to put it out there voluntarily was a true olive branch. Once he got over his initial trepidation, he grinned widely and invited me inside to play.

That bit of "playtime" consisted mostly of me bossing him around until, in the end, he finally mumbled a snide little comment – which led to me _intentionally _beating his sorry, sappy arse with my tiny fists of fury. But those tiny fists left bruises and nearly made him cry – he definitely teared up – and I stormed home in a huff.

We've been best friends ever since.

I know Noel's gay, though he'll flirt with anyone he mildly fancies. But I'm the only girl he'll sleep with, mostly just on the grounds that we're so close and don't have romantic feelings for each other, so a simple fuck doesn't come with messy emotional strings attached. We only ever _truly_ had a feud in our mid-teens when we both fancied the same weirdo nutjob at school, but I was insisting the bloke was straight and would go for me, whilst Noel believed him to be bi and curious about him. Nevermind the guy hardly knew either of us existed, as he was two years ahead of me, one ahead of Noel.

Our two week fight ended when we discovered the bastard was dating some tough female rugby player. Neither of us could ever figure out the guy's _true_ orientation – dating a brute like her meant that he liked manly women, hinting at hidden urges toward his own gender; but dating a female at all could mean he really _was_ straight, just preferred physically agile girls. It didn't matter to us anyway – he hadn't chosen either of _us_. So we gave up on the ugly retard.

Besides, like I told Noel back then, my best mate was far too pretty to settle for such a schmuck, and even if he was with a female jock, he wouldn't have been able to handle the likes of _me_.

Guys today tend to be afraid of women who are a little busty – and depending on how you read into that, I could mean women with small breasts, women with too much breasts, _or_ just a chick out to break the noses of people who aren't paying attention. (If you need to know, I'm putting myself under that third category – I'm not telling you my bra size!)

I'll admit it easily: I'm crude, I ain't no little lady, even if I am physically small. Noel has always towered over me – but I can still take him down if I wanna. He isn't afraid to mess with this girl, actually, which is kinda funny because he sorta _is_, but not because of the "never hit a girl" thing. He just knows he'll always lose.

But tonight we're not bickering or sniping or screwing at all. Just doing our own work in my bedroom quietly, except for those random questions that pop out now and then from his pointy head.

"Oi, Dee – you think Fred ever cheated on Wilma?"

"Of course," I deadpan. "Why d'you think he and Barney were always together? Fred always yelled at him, too – that's a sure sign."

He takes this into consideration and returns to his art.

It's pretty damn odd that we ended up here together over a decade after that initial beat-down I gave him. I didn't _follow_ him here, but when he was looking at schools as far away from the crummy lives we had back in Camden as possible (even with my attitude, his rather flamboyant nature and dress sense got him beat up – seriously – back there, on a daily basis; we'd both been mugged a few times, whether together or separate), I got interested in this Baines place myself. Apparently their music, medical and political science programs especially were all very challenging and highly respected, not to mention their link to the Cain Dion School, which inevitably meant the art programs would be great for Noel. So I took his lead and applied the year after he did.

Though a year apart, we both got accepted right away at our respective times, and both got into the special program too (maybe he'd put in a good word for me, who knows, but even if he did, I'd punch him – and then thank him). I guess either we _are_ both pretty exceptional, or American schools are just rubbish. Or maybe Camden is just teeming with untapped brilliance, as we were both startled to find Chris was here too – younger than both of us, but in Noel's academic year; another club kid we'd known a bit back in London, but we hadn't gone to school together. Meeting up here again was cool, so we all feel like we've known each other for years; for me and Noel, that's accurate, but with Chris it's a little exaggerated.

Anyway, it says a lot about the educational system of America when literally _half_ the members of the HIAGS are from other countries (not to mention one of the Americans doesn't even _belong_ in the House…).

What it _doesn't_ say is just how idiotic these "brilliant" students can get. Which is why even a quiet night in is still begging for some unexpected mishap – if the spooks wanna getcha, they'll getcha!

I should know better when there's a frantic but slightly timid rapping on my closed door, and as I groan and drag myself out of my desk chair, I start to feel a tad uneasy; sure enough, the culprit behind the incessant, annoying knock is Russell, and he smiles widely and hopefully at me as I give him a haughty glare in return.

"Whatchoo want?" I snap immediately, hand on my hip. "I'm busy."

He's actually wringing his hands together anxiously, and speaks in that faux proper voice he puts on when he really just wants to get something out of ya.

"Good evening, m'lady. Wouldst thou be so kind as to, perhaps, lend us your window for a brief spell?"

I stare at him blankly. "Huh? My _window?_ Is that some kinda new slang I dunno about?"

"No, no, no," he snickers. "Not at all, I do quite mean the literal window in your bedroom. You see, it's quite a complicated and difficult to describe scenario, but as it is, your window in particular, overlooking the lovely pond down the hill, is in a very strategic position for…well…"

And the next instant, Brad pokes himself in between Russell and the doorway, a sneaky grin on his own face. "Look, Dee, I know how it sounds, okay? Kinda fishy, kinda weird…"

"No shit," I scoff, about to slam the door in their faces.

But Brad – dear ol' Braddy-wad, with his unearthly charisma and pleading eyes – holds out a hand to stop me and assures, "Look, one of the co-directors of the House is asking your permission, yeah? Obviously it can't be all _that_ bad, right? You can trust _me_, can't you?"

I consider this thoroughly, narrowing my eyes at them both in deep thought for a long, strained moment, before finally letting out a heavy sigh. "No, I can't, but since you asked so nicely…"

And I let the two idiots into the room – not stopping them even when I notice the strange object in Brad's hand. It's like a clamp with a spool of some kind of thick string or thin rope wound around it.

Oh God, I think as they set to work opening my window and securing what I've just figured out is a handmade pulley to the ledge. What have I gotten myself into? What the hell am I letting them do?

Noel glances up from his sketchbook finally and asks, clearly not catching on as fast as me but making a vital point I've missed, "Oi, mates. Where's your third wheel?"

I roll my eyes as the two monkeys at the window lean out and start feeding the rope down to the senior prankster outside. (The order goes: Russell – junior; Simon – senior; Brad – master.)

"Awwwww maaaaaan," I whine, knowing full well that Simon must be outside waiting for that rope end. I've no idea what for – some crazy experiment, some other purpose – but I'm not sure I really _want_ to know, considering these guys. Climbing a wall? Wall-racing competitions? Sneaking in weapons? A rather poorly-thought-out swing? I shouldn't start to guess.

I slump back into my chair and warn, "If any of this is gonna get _me_ into trouble, you guys are gonna owe me _so_ big…"

"Don't worry, love," Russell grins over Brad's head. "If it works, you're in on the cut, we promise."

"Shhh!" Brad scolds him, glancing back at me once before looking away quickly. But I hear him utter quietly to Russell, "There isn't _that_ much, y'know – we can't let _everyone_ in on it!"

"Aw, look'it 'er though," Russell coos sweetly. "She's so tiny, it can't take much to…"

He's silenced by a slap – I can't see how or where Brad slaps him, but it makes Russell flinch.

"But then Noel will notice and we'll all be fucked…"

Russell _tsks_. "Noel hardly takes part in this sorta thing anyway – got that condition, y'know, can't handle much of it…"

"Still – this isn't supposed to be a rager! It's a private party!"

Oh, but now I'm interested, squinting my eyes at him. "`Cut'? A cut of what? What's this about a rager?"

But then, even before they can enlighten me, amongst hurried, frantic hisses to and from their cohort below, the pulley gives out and, inevitably, disaster strikes.

"Shit!" Brad squawks, gropes for the clamp, and scurries out of the room with Russell right behind him.

Oh, _hell_ no. This will _not_ be on _my_ head, damnit! It's just a bloody _window_ that happens to be in _my_ room!


	6. 005 Simon

005 - 4 -

Simon

Damn straight it isn't on Dee's head. It's on _mine_. _Literally._ Not to mention on my arms, shoulders, clothes…just bloody _everywhere._

It was a stellar idea at the time, I should say. Brad pulled Russell and me outside to the garage around eight tonight to present to us a small keg he'd procured (snagged, snatched, stolen) from a frat party that had begun an hour before in one of the dorms on-campus. As he's _Brad_, despite being a HIAGS member, he was inevitably invited – but rather than stay and chug beers away carelessly with a bunch of American football hooligans and their cling-ons, our beloved co-owner much preferred to share the wealth with his _real_ friends back _home_. So he managed to nick one of the smaller kegs without being noticed, secure it to the back of his motorcycle, and drive the h alf a mile back to the House without getting into trouble.

The _trouble_, however, is that technically, alcohol isn't _allowed_ anywhere on campus. Not many people in authority go checking dorm rooms, but it's a general rule (one few manage to follow).

Me being Scottish, and Russell being…well, _Russell_, of course we giggled gleefully with delight at the prospect of kicking back to our own secret stash of anything remotely alcoholic. Those of us who are of age _are_ allowed to go _out_ to drink, of course, but there's just something luxurious about drinking in your own abode, amongst people you love and in a familiar, comfortable environment.

Plus your bed isn't nearly as far away when you black out and someone has to drag you there.

But there's a problem here: Traci may very well be inside, none of us paid attention tonight to be sure if he is, and if we get caught lugging in a barrel of beer – even one as small as this (though it still holds plenty to keep the three of us stupidly hammered for the remainder of the night), we'd definitely get into deep shit.

Going in the back door is out of the question – it's too close to Traci's apartment door. The front door is a possibility, but we see through the windows that Jen and Allison are in the den – Jen would tattle purely out of spite, whilst Allison would surely disapprove and at least _threaten_ to turn us in, merely on the grounds of following rules. (She's not a bitch, really, just a stickler for being a good girl; hey, I don't wanna piss off a goody-two-shoes. But I still like the chick.)

Our last-ditch effort is finding a suitable entrance where no one will see or suspect anything – and Russell, beautiful brainiac wiz he is, points out that the window to Dee, Katy and Rose's bedroom is at such a perfect position as to sneak in a barrel such as this without catching eyes. (It helps that it's starting to get dark earlier now too.) I could kiss him! (If I weren't too afraid of catching some strain of herpes…)

The next dilemma, though, is…their room is on the second floor. How to get it up there, and even more than that, how to get to the window itself?

So Brad and I whip up a (crude) rendering of a pulley contraption, using some extra rope left in the garage from last year when Traci tied a Christmas tree to his car (which is in the garage, but doesn't necessarily mean he's home – but we'll take no chances; not with beer!). As Brad finishes working on that, Russell tip-toes through the back door and up to the girls' room to obtain entrance, and I maneuver the keg onto my shoulder as I stealthily glide around like a ninja to the spot just beneath the target window. And then, I wait.

Eventually, as the sun sets beyond the horizon and the sky grows dimmer, I hear the window above me open and jump to my feet. I'm so engrossed in watching my mates' heads poke out into the night and seeing them lower the rope…that, with my back turned, I don't notice the looming form in the distance, coming ever closer over the green grasses of our lovely piece of land…

Until Brad hisses down to me to hurry it up, because he suspects the approaching figure is _not_ the Grim Reaper (though he could very easily pass for it, as I pause briefly in my struggle to secure the knotted rope around the barrel to catch a glimpse of him over my shoulder). Though unsure if the contraption will work, I stand and wave wildly at Brad and Russell to start yanking as hard – and fast – as they can, before he gets too close to make out what we're doing…

And then there's a terrible squealing sound, and I can feel the three of us gasp at the same time, as the pulley defects on us – and the rope holding the keg skids out of its traction, throwing off the other two so that they lose their grip…and the keg, halfway to its intended destination, suddenly comes hurdling back down toward my wide eyes.

I instinctively throw my arms up to catch it – not move away, like any _sane_ person would do…and the pathetic excuse for wood holding our immaculate beverage crashes and splinters – right on my head.

Stunned – but not in pain, other than that of realisation that an entire (mini-)keg has now been wasted – I stand stupidly mute and feel my gut sinking…and the beer dribbling all over me, soaking into my hair and clothes. But the pit of my stomach yawns even wider when I hear the familiar voice behind me – almost _too_ complacent.

"Hey, Simon."

I'm rigid and frozen at first, then finally manage to twist around slowly to face him – forcing a shy smile. "Uh, h-heeeey, Tra—er, Dr. Doz…"

He eyes me up knowingly as he clears the field of grass and comes close enough to see me in the dim light. There's a creepy smirk on his lips. "You sure you wanna call me that right now? That means you're acknowledging me as an authority figure in a situation where you _must_ not want that type of person around…"

Hell yes, he knows what's going on. I clear my throat and try anyway, "Um, look, Trace, it's not what you think…"

"Another prank?" he surmises, then glances up at the – now closed – window. (Those bastards! Leaving me to face the Devil alone!) "Or another attempt to get something into the House without anyone else noticing?"

I hesitate, then let out a nervous chuckle. "Okay, it's not _quite_ what you think," I stammer, my speech particularly choppier than usual, "but maybe something along those lines…Not that bad, though, actually…" Then I grasp at straws: "I _am_ British – _Scottish_, in fact, so it should be understandable, as it's part of my chemical make-up…"

A quirked eyebrow silences my rambling. "If it's not that bad, why not just bring it in the front door? Or even the back?"

"Ehm…We didn't really know that, uh…you were out…"

Damn! _Stupid_ bloody slip!

To my horror, Traci starts walking toward me – but then stops about a metre away, cringing visibly. "Christ, Si! I can smell it from here!"

I gulp, still trying to find a more fitting explanation…even as I feel the liquid dripping down the back of my neck. "It's, ehm…for the science majors? Y'know…They…need this stuff sometimes…" A slight wheezing of stress escapes me as I moronically add, "Don't they?"

One eye droops lazily in that _Just how stupid __**are**__ you?_ way of his. "_Pure_ alcohol, yes – but that fratboy beer crap is hardly convincing."

"Um…" I fidget restlessly, my fingers now wringing together – sticky and moist. "Would it be too juvenile to blame the idea on someone else at this point?" I ask with a breathless chuckle. "Because it really _wasn't_ my…"

But Traci is merely shaking his head despondently, sighing, "Don't even start, Simon."

"…idea…" I finish the sentence in the voice of a mouse.

Traci sighs yet again – he does that a lot around me – and goes on practically, "You _know_ the rules: no alcohol on campus _or_ in the House. You're perfectly welcome to go out to a bar, as you're of legal age, but bringing it home—"

I can't help myself this time. I suddenly blurt out stubbornly, pleadingly – okay, _whining_, "But the frat boys have it all the time at their parties! So someone snagged a bit for us – what's the harm in that?"

Traci cocks that eyebrow at me in interest. "Who exactly would that be? Or do I even need to ask? I probably don't _want_ to know – but I _should_."

As if on cue, the window above us slides open again and Brad pokes his head out, waving down at us sheepishly. "Uh…Hi, Trace. What's up?"

Traci smoulders back up at him. "My ire. You've made a real mess here, you know," he says, gesturing to me and the puddles of lost beer on the concrete sidewalk. "The action itself _and_ the physical slop I see before me. Care to explain to me what happened, _co-director?_"

Brad glances around guiltily, trying to avoid eye contact with his "higher-up." He holds the failed contraption out the window for Traci to (just barely) see.

"Yeah, uh…Rope kinda…jumped the track…"

Traci continues glaring daggers up at him. "I think," he says icily, "we need to have a talk." He turns back to me and I nearly jump at his voice addressing me. "You and Russell clean this shit up. Then go take a damn shower, you smell awful."

I bow dramatically. "You're too kind, sir."

And with that, Traci sweeps around and heads for the front door – probably hoping to catch Brad at either staircase before he can sneak out the back.

Meanwhile, I stand here motionless, still silently agonising over our loss. And as it's now November, it's getting a bit chilly – I may be from Scotland, but no matter where you're from, I'll bet anyone else would feel uncomfortable standing in the cool night air, covered from head to foot in sticky beer.

"Oi, Si!"

The voice above me catches my attention, yanking me out of my momentary depression, and I look up finally to see Noel leaning out the window this time, a huge, silly smile on his face.

"Hey, mate, looks like you spilled a bit."

My depression rushes back the instant his mouth opens to blurt those words to me, and I try to give him my most dour expression. But he probably doesn't see it, so instead, I deadpan, "Yes, Noel. Thank you for noticing. And for telling me about it. I may not have known otherwise."

"Always try to help, mate. Oi, if you can, try to lick as much of it away first – oh, and maybe squeeze some into a glass for me from your hair."

I was just about to start moving to get the mess cleaned up, but with that last suggestion, I freeze up again, glaring harder up at him. Like he would even care if it was sunny out…

"Always a help…Right…I'll get right on your hairy beer, then, Noel," I growl.

"Thanks!" he chirps, and closes the window.

"Y'bloody knob."

Half an hour later, as Russell and I just about finish mopping up our miserable failure, Noel sticks his head out the window again.

"Oi! You missed a spot!"

I love the guy – I really do…but I'm going to strangle him…_after_ I take a shower.

Then he startles me with an unexpected offer: "Want me to help you wash that outta your hair? The shower's big enough for two, you know…"

I hesitate, then reconsider my oath to kill him.

Russell scowls at me. "Why _you?_ There's two of us here, and I'm not all gross and sticky!"

"That's precisely the point," I snicker, smiling proudly. "Because _I'm_ the one that just had a barrel smashed over me head." I hand him my mop and start stripping off my shirt before even reaching the front door. "Later, sucker."


	7. 006 Russell

006 Russell - 6 -

Russell

We don't get into any major trouble for the beer incident; Brad got a talking-to from Traci, mainly just about two particular subjects, but that was it, really. Simon and I merely were reminded alcohol isn't to be on campus property – and to be more discreet next time. Traci isn't even going to the Dean, or mentioning it to Dr. House (the "unofficial" overseer from the Teaching Hospital where he works; his gig here was assigned more as a reprimand by the Dean of the hospital itself for being a lazy nuisance, thought he'd benefit more from checking in on the precious med students than hiding away in an empty room – or the room of a comatose patient – to watch soap operas), neither of whom would care, I believe. But Traci says he'll keep quiet anyway.

Brad's lecture, he told Simon and myself later, was not just about being more careful since he's technically one of the "higher-ups" now; he was also reminded that I specifically should not be tempted or exposed to that sort of thing. Not the devious stuff, mind you, but the alcohol itself.

I'm probably one of the few people in the House who came from a sort of bad upbringing – not that my parents didn't love me or abused me, but the whole shape of my melodramatic past still gets to me occasionally. I tend to turn it into fuel for my performances (I'm a drama major, both in school _and_ life), but with my oddball attitude, I can take things like a chronically ill mother, being shuffled around between family members, and drug addiction, and turn them into dark humour. Or not-so-dark humour. Even as I live my life now, there _has_ to be a flare for the absurd, but I'd never want that misery to consume me, so changing it to exaggerated silliness makes it both an entertaining bit of comedy, as well as a kind of mental therapy for me.

I'm a year behind where I should be, actually, due to Traci's having caught me smoking heroin in the House a year and a half ago. But he's one of those helpful blokes, not a _true_ hardass, and instead of turning me into police or even the Dean, he urged me to spend the following year in rehab, assuring me that my position in the program would be held for my eventual return. I suppose Traci and my teacher were both quite assured of my talents since I'd begun at Baines, so they didn't want me to lose that potential; plus, they truly cared and offered support.

Aw, what lovely men!

I was in rehab for six months, and the remainder of that year was spent – amazingly – back at the House, as an unofficial member. Traci, John and Dr. House worked with me quite intensely to keep me straight, even helping me procure jobs on local television programs, since I wouldn't be returning to actual studies until the Fall Semester, but they didn't want me slipping into boredom or depression, which could possibly have led me back to my previous addictions.

Which, if I shall list them, were as follows: marijuana, cocaine, crack, heroin, various and sundry pills (uppers, downers, you name it), and alcohol. There's a line between recreation and addiction, and I'd gone far beyond it. My grades had begun slipping anyway, not enough to warrant probation, but enough to catch Traci's devout attention; surprisingly, it _didn't_ affect my literal performances. Behind-the-scenes, I became a wreck, but academically I was fine overall. So the Dean was suspicious when Traci informed her of my year's hiatus, even with the highly believable "overwhelming stress" and "financial struggles" stories he fed her. She knew something else was up, but stuck to the "don't ask, don't tell" policy, and left her trust of my well-being in Traci's capable hands.

I'm proud to say I've now been eighteen months clean and sober.

So when the mention of alcohol came up, I honestly didn't care as much for the actual subject as I did for the surrounding potential chaos and ideas that came with getting Brad's nicked keg into the House. It was tempting, the beer, but not as much as the mischief.

The other House members had not been officially enlightened to my situation back then, though I'm sure several (Simon, Noel, Brad, Dee, Chris) had suspected as much as the truth. But they rarely breeched the subject upon my return after the rehab stint, though they were cautious about me being around all that then.

I know some others experiment with the softer side of drugs in the club and bar scenes – especially Noel, which is a bit daft considering he's so close to Dee, who is strongly anti-drugs – but to each his own, I still say. I'd become a bit more concerned if anyone I care for dabbled in harder stuff, or got _too_ into it, perhaps try to quietly intervene and make thoughtful suggestions. But in the end, it's really up to each individual. I'd struggled with drugs back in Essex, too, with my dad being such an absentee father and my mother having to undergo crucial treatment for repeated bouts of cancer (which was why I'd been shifted around so much, even amongst distant relatives, for several years – hence my instability and neediness, I presume). But I _always_ stuck to that credo of "live and let live." But it wasn't until that half a year's stay in the rehab (which had been far more successful and meaningful for me than the two or three week jaunts I'd been forced into by those very distant family members in my unruly teen days) that I began taking my life and sobriety more seriously.

Brad and Simon clearly weren't thinking as carefully as usual when they brought me into it; then again, I could have rejected them on my own. But, as I say, I was more intrigued by the challenge of mischief than the actual beer itself (hence my open invitation to Dee and Noel to share a bit in the fun). Traci, however, felt the need to reprimand Brad (who had been made aware more thoroughly of my previous year's troubles after being deemed a co-director of the House his senior year), as he "should have known better." It was only a verbal reprimand, mind, but it must have struck home, because he apologised sincerely after being released from Traci's clutches.

Of course I brushed it off with a good nature and assured him I hadn't actually planned on _having_ any – which may or may not be true, but still…better to keep that burden off his shoulders. He bought it and was relieved to hear me say it.

Truth be told, at this point, I could occasionally go for a drink, or even a toke on a joint. But I resist, strengthening myself each time I refuse…

But I wouldn't mind a lager here or there…

My personality – besides my ridiculous need for attention in my area of study, not to mention in my general life to keep the imminent depression and anxiety over abandonment or rejection at bay – is one of an addictive nature, as is obvious. But having kicked the drugs, my next avenue for self-torture (and pleasure) has become sex.

Upon my return mid-year to the HIAGS, I came upon a lovely young sprite of a new recruit named Katy. We hit it off immediately, especially considering her wild and kinky nature, as it matches my own so superbly. I must say, besides the support from my official overseers _and_ close friends – particularly Noel and Simon – this new presence in my life directed me onto a novel, otherwise previously unimagined path: that of true and heartfelt determination, not out of a self-centered need for attention, but just for the _fun_ of it; not to prove myself worthy or trash others' belief in my inevitable failures, but to prove _to_ myself that I'm fine just as I am and it's all right to be odd and crazy…_without_ artificial aids. She helped me see that my random acts of imagination and creativity _are_ possible from a natural, untainted place inside me, and I don't need anything but my own sober yet twisted mind to be as brilliant as – or even _more_ brilliant than – I was before.

This bond developed naturally as well, into a physically intimate one.

So by the middle of the first semester my official junior year, Katy and I are, by loose terms, "dating." We have a deep caring and a love for one another that transcends the need for a verbalised commitment…or, in other words, we take pleasure in fucking in addition to our emotional connection – yet we're also both fully aware and understanding of each other's fleeting fancies for other people. To be "seeing each other" is too light a label, but another way to put it is that we have a "very open relationship."

So she flirts with _loads_ of others, men and women equally, as do I. We're not as devout or monogamous as Angie and Brad, however, so those flirtations occasionally mature into superficial (but pleasurable) one-offs with other people – sometimes three- or four-somes. But we _are_ quite stable in our love for each other, so there is rarely a reason for jealousy.

On the contrary, we typically applaud each other for our separate (or inclusive) conquests, and I'm man enough, trusting enough, to say that I'm _proud_ to have such a lovely, precious jewel to reciprocate my deeper feelings – whilst she enjoys the well-deserved attentions of others. I believe her perception of this is likewise, as well as the same about me.

So, even whilst in a "dating" relationship, I've had it off with numerous other women…and perhaps two or three times with other men I quite fancied. (Not that it matters, but I do like to point out that all these "blokes" tended to be _very_ effeminate; as much of a "Beta Male" as I am, I prefer the "fairer sex," even if their plumbing is anatomically that of a male…)

Yes, I suppose even after the tumultuous struggles of childhood melodrama and battling serious drug addictions, it's all come down to this: replacing it all with sex and physical pleasure.

I'm lucky to be with a woman who is so accepting of this. However, there's a part of me that worries anxiously that the next "hiatus" Traci suggests will be to a clinic for sex addicts.

Dear God, please don't let him sentence me to that! If deprived of _all_ of these temptations, I shall be left to settle for overfeeding my own already engorged ego! I shall swell to the size of a zeppelin and float off into space, becoming a massive star in the center of a galaxy of my own making!

But that won't happen; too many trivial, stumbling embarrassments butt into my life on a daily basis to keep me grounded – literally, at times, as I'll be flat on my face from tripping over my own microphone cord whilst trying to do a stand-up comedy gig in a grimy little club in town.

That, my lovies, is not imagination. That is past fact. And I shall be doomed (or perhaps blessed, if it's to keep me from going supernova in a few billion years) to repeat it, as well as other similar acts, quite by stupid accident, daily. To remind me to keep laughing at myself. It's a good antidote to _truly_ thinking oneself a god.

Speaking of God's Gift To All, John (not my drama instructor, but a mere fluke who got into the House) is currently sitting in the dining room, after Simon's (and Noel's) shower and the talk Brad has with us, blatantly trying to catch attention of his own by playing an acoustic guitar for anyone to hear as they pass through.

I'll readily admit that I'm an attention-monger, but usually it's in the spirit of self-ridicule or entertainment. John's intentions are far too serious and egotistical, really. Whilst Brad can merely smile at a gaggle of birds and make them giggle with the hope for an eventual shag, he doesn't make a habit of doing this; John, on the other hand, has made it his mission in life to try and come across as some kind of multi-talented, irresistible ladies' man, to sleep with as many women as possible.

Hang on – that's _my_ bag!

Well, I have a wider variety, therefore more opportunities, as he's one to limit himself to only Caucasian women – what a twat! Not just the racist issue, but he doesn't know what he's missing out on, skipping all those exotic, luscious Thai girls and "Jungle" birds…

Promiscuity aside, I'm not truly the same sort of bloke, in any capacity. Colour and culture have no impact on my preference. As I've mentioned, I'm quite the Beta Male, and that catches the fancy of many women, contrary to popular belief. I don't _mean_ to be, I just _am_ that way, a bit too "poof" to come off as a man's man. (An amusing paradox, as a "man's man" would be assumed to prefer being with men, wouldn't he? Technically speaking, of course, not referring to the well-known cliché.)

John, however, tries too hard to be the strong, mysterious, dark Alpha Male (but not _too_ dark, mind – ooh! A bit of a controversy! I'll bet Chris and Jesse would have a thing or two to say about that…). A lot of women fall for it – women like Jen, whom he isn't truly interested in but will shag whenever he doesn't have another poor, average, clueless bird to use.

But he does this a lot, especially on campus, sitting there all "into" his "music" (which is actually very bland) and secretly hoping someone – a saucy female – will stop to listen and compliment him. And half an hour later, he'll having his fingers straying into her naughty bits, plus a first-name-only to add to his list of successes.

I don't understand the draw myself, even if I were to put myself in the mind of a female or a gay man, but I guess one should consider the bizarre source. I'd much prefer to shag Noel than this piece of mediocrity.

As Simon and I stand outside Brad's door (after Brad's gone in for the night), chatting away about my next day's lesson, me agonising over how on Earth I'll be able to find the inspiration to act like I'm truly distraught over Jen's character threatening to leave me (an exercise wherein one student writes a scene and others act it out), Gwen passes by and flashes an appreciative smile toward the so-called "musician."

But once she disappears upstairs, John's smug expression fades when, after several attempts to ignore him and pay attention to our conversation, the _real_ musician amongst us gives up, cringing painfully as he blurts out in pure irritation, "Fuckin' hell, man, would you tune that bloody F string properly already? It's making my ears bleed!"

I almost laugh out loud as John freezes up, looking confused for a moment; amazingly, he still hasn't realised, after over two years living with him, that Simon has perfect pitch (as do Matthew and Chris, by the way; but Matt's a rival, and Chris isn't even a music major, so to John, they don't "count").

As John clears his throat minutely and attempts to adjust the peg, Chris saunters into the room from the basement, carrying what looks like a glowing orb from another planet in one gloved hand. He pauses and eyes up the situation, taking note of John's struggle (and Simon's, as he continues to cringe every time the string is plucked in a still badly tuned fashion). I can sense Simon holding back from grabbing the instrument and fixing it himself (or just smashing the thing over John's head, do us all a favour), but Chris is far less caring about John's opinion of himself. (We _try_ to be civil and polite, but some people here have less of a filter for being "appropriate," or even acknowledgement for it.)

"That's dreadful," says the Astrophysics and Computer Engineering major. "Here, hold this." And he tries to shove his orb thingy into John's hands.

John reels back from it, obviously terrified of the object – and really, as much as I love and admire Chris, I can't blame the untalented guitarist. We rarely know what concoctions Chris comes up with; could it be radioactive? Well, he's not an idiot, so I'm sure not…the gloves are merely for decoration. But I would jump a few feet away too if he brandished that thing at me.

"What is it?" John asks warily.

Chris rolls his eyes. "Never you mind. Just hold it for a second. It's not dangerous," he assures the paling young man in the chair. "_I'm_ holding it, aren't I? Would I really want to contaminate myself?"

"But _you're_ wearing gloves—"

"These aren't even latex! For Christ's sake, I've worn these things since I was twelve – as if they could keep anything from getting through to my skin. Do you really think they're for protection?"

And he grabs John's hand, yanking it away from the guitar neck (before he can do anymore damage, I'm sure), and slaps the ball into it. Then he easily slings the guitar out of John's lap and, as it has no strap and is quite large whilst Chris is not, rests the body on the dining room table as he turns the appropriate peg the opposite direction from how John was turning it. Within seconds, Chris has fixed the tuning – on _all_ the strings, it appears – and (just to get on John's nerves, I'm sure, rubbing it in that a non-music major has more knowledge of an instrument than _he_ does) plucks out a rapid-fire flourish of lavish Flamenco-style measures before replacing it into John's lap. He snatches the luminescent ball back and turns to Simon, raising his eyebrows.

"Better?"

As if John isn't even in the room!

Simon nods with relief. "Much. Thanks, mate."

Chris returns the gesture, then bounces up the staircase without a glance back to the guitar's owner.

Simon and I try to smother our smirks, but John is clearly smouldering over being shown-up by a younger, non-music-centered student (even though Chris probably spends the most time out in the music shed).

I can't help myself; I try to "comfort" the sulking "musician" by pointing out, "Oi, at least no birds were around to witness it, eh?"

He scowls up at me, whilst Simon chokes on a chortle, and I bite my lip, feeling the tension in the room rise. I pick at Simon's shirt sleeve and suggest quietly, "Erm, why don't we go up to my room – maybe you can pretend to be Jen's character for me. Help me rehearse…"

Simon looks pained, whining, "I wouldn't wanna be her in _any_ capacity, even in a fictional role…" But he follows me up all the same, leaving John to stew in his own embarrassment.

I secretly wish someone – maybe airheaded (but sweet) Gwen; hell, even _Jen_ – could have been there to witness that humiliation…Oh well. Time to concentrate on more difficult prospects.

Not that he's a stellar actor, but just seeing it with my own eyes once, perhaps I'll be able to perform more convincingly tomorrow if I mentally superimpose Simon's image over Jen's physical body. Not that Simon is really "my type" in that way – but I'd definitely mourn his leaving more than I ever would Jen's!


	8. 007 Traci

007 Traci - 4 -

**A/N: My wonderful sister, "Beanni," helped start this one off for me. She wrote the first few paragraphs. Thanks, sis!** Traci

I love my job. Really, I do. No matter how crazy it gets, I love to teach and help inspire young adults. I love being head of this unique group of people learning to make their ways in the world while maintaining their eccentric personalities. Directing them, nurturing them, preparing them for life beyond school…It's such a rush for me and so rewarding. I wouldn't change a thing.

Well, okay, so some days I think I maybe made a mistake. Maybe I should have my own place, a respite from the constant barrage of asinine whining and insane questions. Or just pointless jabbering.

For instance, at this moment I'm debating the pros and cons of life behind bars as a result of murdering a student. A hyperactive, lisping Brit who talks so fast I can barely make out what he says when I'm wide awake, let alone when I just woke up and have a crapload of work to get done before my lecture at two.

Not that I haven't thought it before this instant, but I know now why Brad sometimes wants to punch certain kids (_ahem_, _women_) in the face. Granted, he has his legitimate reasons and holds back. That's far more admirable than my own urge to become violent – as Matt's just being himself. Who should be beaten for that?

Well, in this moment, I feel like _he_ should.

I suppose I should just be grateful that today's litany isn't about aliens or conspiracies or secret government ploys to cover up the _real_ money they have…But _still_…

"Here I am, pouring my heart and soul and energy and time into a few pieces of music I'm only really writing out of my true love for it, and for what? Other than satisfying my own burning desire to create? It won't get me anywhere, really, considering my majors here are only partly a sure thing – computer science, well, that's constantly in high demand these days, but not musicians. Maybe musicians with some _talent_ and _originality_, yes, but today's youth – the main target audience for new bands or artists – they're so jaded by telly, video games, and their parents' shite old disco – the _bad_ kind – that they settle for such easily digestible – which I take issue with in terminology alone – Top 40 chart rubbish! Only small groups are interested in something genuinely _new_, and even _those _snobs are skeptical. I think Simon's right – music used to be a defining factor in who you were, where you belonged socially or whatever, but these days, there's so much blending and breaking boundaries that there's little distinction – which is good as far as evolution is concerned, I guess, and broadening horizons, but there _is_ something to be said for categorizing people by their musical taste, as horrible as that sounds. People who liked the same music generally held the same beliefs, other similar interests, all that. They got on better, their own separate scenes – maybe elitist or clique-ish, but the bonds were stronger between them. Nowadays, someone may be into the same band as you, or at least a few songs by them, but otherwise, you may not like the person at all! It's getting harder and harder to narrow down the people you'd really like and respect and appreciate, all because, if you're like me, music isn't just some background distraction, but a true _belief_, a way of _life_. A passion, a desire, an outlet – communication! Yet commercialization and wanting a wider audience – that can kill a band's reputation amongst their original fan base, as well as their _souls_, but at the same time, it's a surefire way to be able to continue doing what you love. Which is difficult, always has been, for the average-selling artist, to make a living off of their true passion. It doesn't matter how much you're in magazines or on telly these days either – if the records don't sell, you're fucked. Even touring – no wonder ticket prices are soaring, even for minor acts, because the expenses _of_ touring are getting astronomical! Yet it's one of the biggest ways to get your band known, get the name out. But transportation, petrol, booking, paying the people who do the detailed business work, roadies, whatever – that sucks the cash away, so one tour for a few months, you _may _just barely break even! It's hard to imagine every band will sell out every show, so of course there's going to be a discrepancy. Unless you've got a major label backing you – which would immediately deem you a sell-out by more passionate fans – or previous years of hard work and a mind for saving money to help you out later on new projects…bands are screwed! Technology and the Internet are great ways to get exposure, but even that's not _totally_ reliable. Real music fans want to see and hear what the bands are like live, it's such an integral part of being in a band now.

"So my computer science degree would be more feasible and reliable an area to concentrate my work on, but it's not as much of a _passion_ for me as music. And technology – every time you buy the newest product, something _else _is coming out that claims to be better. We're letting ourselves get left behind in the dust, even as we work to conquer the flow of new techno gadgets. But it still fascinates me, I can't help it, even as far as music is concerned. There are so many _old_ instruments – even just your basic Eighties synthesizer – that I have yet to master, and Chris is programming songs like there's no tomorrow! Not just that, but he's _inventing_ his own technology and programs to record and mix now. Don't get me wrong, he's brilliant at what he does, and he _does_ play actual instruments in order to _get_ sounds for the most part, but his self-made projects just baffle me! The things other people come up with and market are amazing on their own – did you know you can create a song on a fucking _cell phone_ these days? You just get the right app and figure out how to work it properly – or intentionally _improperly_, as Chris likes to do, so kudos to him for being purposefully fucked-up – and you can make a whole album! The days of the acoustic guitar and bongos are nearly obsolete! And as much as I'm curious about all this new stuff, I'm a bit sad, too, that the old reliable shit is getting left by the wayside. I only got to play a real organ – like, an actual _church organ_ – once in my life, and the so-called `technology' of _that_ is even considered old-fashioned, practically barbaric, these days. But the sound it gives off, mate, I'm telling you – sometimes the old shit is just more powerful and overwhelming than the stuff these user-friendly, button-pushing devices can give off. And—"

I can't help it; I've been following along, despite my internal agony over the kid's ranting, and I do agree with him on many points. But just to cut into his barreling monologue, to maybe give him a second to catch a breath (and me a moment to stifle the urge to staple his mouth shut), I interject, "Isn't that essentially what a piano is? Pushing keys?"

My plan works, and he halts – first staring at me blankly, stunned that someone else is in the room; then he considers the question and narrows his eyes in thought; finally, he slumps in his seat, as if defeated, though he mumbles out petulantly, "It's a lot more complicated than just _that_."

"Obviously," I chuckle, trying to get back to grading my class's quizzes – God knows why I chose to do it out here in the kitchen, right in the line of fire of anyone who feels like sitting down and blabbing my ears off. (Oh right – the heater's giving us trouble and my apartment is freezing.) "So complicated that a four-year-old wouldn't be able to pick out songs by ear without one lesson. So complicated that a twelve-year-old couldn't possibly be playing the likes of Ray Charles merely by listening to his songs a few times before busting them out on his own."

I catch his eye furtively and he presses his lips together in a thin line before admitting reluctantly, "You know I hate to boast…but I _am_ a bit of an exception, therefore it _is_ more complicated than you make it sound…"

"You're more than just an _exception_, Matt," I sigh. "You're a prodigy."

"`Prodigy' doesn't hold the same weight now as it did when I was four."

"Yes it does. You still play like someone three times your age who's had lessons for decades. And you had, what, _one?_ Maybe it's not all polished, technical and programmed as lessons can make an average musician, but that's what makes your style unique – what _made_ you a prodigy in the first place: you do it your own way, and it still sounds immaculate. That's what a prodigy _is_, Matt. Accept it. And shut up."

"Well, excuse me for trying to be humble about it!"

"There's a difference," I growl, _trying_ to get back to my work, "between being humble and false modesty."

"But I'm not going to go around bragging about how good I am, so why tell me to shut up? I haven't been telling everyone I meet how _exceptional_ I am, throwing it in their faces—"

"I know that," I snap, now passing the brink of irritation. "I wasn't talking about that. I just meant, in general, for the love of God and my sanity – _shut up!_ I'm busy here!"

He hesitates, seeing the flash of anger in my eyes, and blinks in astonishment.

"Oh! Have I been talking too much again?" Perfectly innocent and naïve, as if he truly doesn't realize when he runs off at the mouth.

Which, of course, he doesn't. Which is why we've worked out this intricate method: I _tell_ him when he's talking too much. And he shuts up. Or else I seal his mouth shut with duct tape and he isn't to take it off for the rest of the day.

"Yes," I answer deliberately.

He immediately jumps up, holding out his hands in defense. "I'm sorry, Trace, I didn't realize…I didn't see you were busy—"

"I guess the stack of papers and red pen were too subtle."

He blinks again, as quickly as he had once been speaking. "Ah…Er…Right…S-Sorry, I'll be off now…"

And he bustles out of the room, leaving me in peace.

But then Orlando, Rose, Angie and Russell all come barreling in through the back door, laughing uproariously as the drama majors tell Angie about the devastating performance Russell put on today in his scene with Jen – and his accidental slip in calling her "Simon."

Fuck this. Cold or not, I've _got_ to get these quizzes done. If my pen freezes up midway, I'll just use my own blood. I saunter back to my apartment and, pulling a thick blanket over my shoulders, get back to work.


	9. 008 Orlando

008 Orlando - 4 -

**A/N: Beanni (my sister and overlord) also helped with this one, too: everything up to "a notch or ten" came from her own brain and hand…Once again, thanks, Dr. Beanvorkian!)** Orlando

Sometimes I'm baffled by my Housemates. Honestly, Chris will ramble on and on about deep, philosophical thoughts, and I want to scream, "Who cares? What about right here, right now?" But I try to keep from doing that so I don't offend the poor bloke. He's just different. I guess I just wonder if he even cares about the people in front of him or if the theoretical universe means more to him.

Me? I live in the here and now. Always have. Bungee jumping? Sure. Sky diving? Why not? As far as we know, this is it, so milk it for all you can!

Which is why I pull out all the stops when I go see Viggo – uh, I mean, Dr. Mortenson. Sure, he's Noel's mentor, not mine, but Noel never cares if I accompany him to a meeting.

I adore Noel, we all do. Such a sweetheart! He loves a good laugh but he really has no ill will toward anyone. Personally, I'd love to drown Lily in her own misery. And Jen and John can go to hell, too.

No, I'm not that nice. But to the outside world I am, 'cause I'm an actor.

See, John is my roommate. He's a fucktard. And rude. I keep my stuff in my room, but if asshole is there, I sleep elsewhere. Got plenty of good mates who help me out. Even share a bed with me! (Not like that!)

Why is my roommate a fucktard? 'Cause he refuses to practice his music in the music house, the shed right by the main house but set up for volume control so the rest of us can study or sleep when someone is in there messing about. I can't study in my room anymore.

He brings girls back. _All The Time_. Never the same girl twice. And if I don't leave on my own, they won't stop! Ew! Then, after she leaves, he puts another notch on his bedpost and tells me what a stud he is and how no one does it like an American stud, and I should make sure I tell this to Russell. So I point out that if he dated women of non-white heritages, he could be an even _bigger_ ass – uh – stud. And he'll remind me that his dick is a Nazi about women, only whites, he can't help it. And I'll come back with, "Girls of colour are too smart to drop to your level," or something like that, and he'll say something about if he was gay I'd be all over him and gag, puke, etc.

So I despise him. He doesn't care enough about me to like or hate me, which is fine.

But if I _really_ wanna piss him off, I'll comment on some song Matt played for me, or a song he wrote for Angie and how much she loved it (John is crazy for her, she ignores him). Then I'll get a twenty minute rant on why Matt is a hack and an amateur musician (nevermind his prodigy status early in life) and why he, himself, is the better musician of the two. Blah blah blah. Whatever.

It just cracks me up to ruffle his feathers once in a while. _Someone_ needs to bring him down a notch or ten.

Unfortunately for _me_, that isn't happening tonight. The only notch after this will be another in his bedpost. He isn't even subtle about it, launching into the room with tart of the moment at nearly two in the morning, waking me up with their giggles and grunts and – _ew!_ – slurping away at each other. I try to shut it out with a pillow over my head, but the inevitable bubbly laughter and squeaking bed across the room penetrate my cloth and cotton fortress. So I don't bother being subtle either, throwing off my duvet with a loud curse and stomping to the door. I hear the girl gasp, like she didn't know I was there, and immediately John's shushing her, cooing stupid things like, "Don't worry about him, he doesn't care…"

I bloody well _do_ care, damnit! I don't need this shit when I have an important scene to perform tomorrow! So I make my huff of indignation clearly audible before storming out of the room, slamming the door behind me.

Then I realise how stupid I am – not for the scene itself, but because my alarm clock is in there! I'm not going back in that bloody room!

I decide to head for the couch in the den, as I'm sure _someone_ leaving early will wake me, whether they mean to or not. But halfway there I remember that most people leave through the _back_ door, where the kitchen is – and the coffee. Damnit!

But just as I'm about to yank my own hair out from frustration, my saving grace comes tip-toeing down the hallway. I spin around to find Matt carrying a glass of water back toward his room. I gasp and wave at him furiously.

Instantly the skinny little guy falters, not moving another inch, that wary look in his usually big, round eyes. "Uhh…I take it John's having a better night than you?" he whispers as he timidly starts toward his room again – which I am conveniently in front of.

"Oi, Matt, think you can help me out tonight?" I hiss at him hopefully, the desperation clear even in my hushed tone.

He cringes, eyebrows scrunched up in measured hesitancy. "Unnn…W-What…exactly…"

Like he doesn't know what I'm going to ask – I've only asked him twice already this year! I suppose trying to play dumb is his way of alerting me that he's not that crazy about sharing his room at the moment…

There's an obnoxious, wordless exclamation from _my_ room, and I catch Matt's startled blink. I hold out my arms helplessly.

"_Please!_" I beg him, starting to get on my knees. "Don't make me go back in there! You're the only one I've seen who's awake so far! I don't wanna barge in on someone and wake them up."

His shoulders slumped, he sighs and nods his understanding, waving me toward his door. "Okay, okay. Just for tonight, since Chris is working in the shed. Last time, Orli, I swear it." (Though this is the third time he's said that.)

I leap back to my feet and try to hug him, but he hisses back at me – no words, mind, just like a cat warding off the overly enthusiastic, eager puppy. But he's not usually this unapproachable – it's just the water I've now managed to spill on his shirt that reminds me why I shouldn't get that worked up. I jump back and apologise, but he just swats me away grumpily, saying he's fine, it's just a little water.

So he leads me into his room, sets his glass on the dresser beside his bed, climbs under the duvet – and is then somehow utterly shocked when I slide in beside him.

"What the hell d'you think—"

"You said I could sleep here!"

He huffs and slams a little fist against his pillow. "In the _room_, yes – not in my _bed!_ You always use Chris's bed when you stay in here 'cause so far he hasn't come back in—"

"Oh, calm down," I shush him flippantly, already snuggling up and getting warm and comfy under the duvet. "He seemed tired today, I doubt he'll pull another all-nighter. It's nothing to get so upset over. We're just mates, you're helpin' me out. Unless you _want _to cuddle, but I'm not really up for it tonight, honey, got a big day tomorrow."

He stares down at me silently for a long moment, then heaves a sigh of defeat and shuts off his light, burrowing down next to me.

But as I start to drift off, my doze is interrupted by his hoarse whisper of annoyance.

"Why _my_ room this time? _Again?_"

I shrug. "Like I said – because everyone else is asleep and you and Chris are the only ones awake right now besides John and his tramp for the night."

"But Chris isn't _here_, he's still down in the shed…"

"So?"

"So why my _bed?_"

"Because, like I _said_, I'm pretty sure tonight Chris'll eventually come up to sleep—"

"That's not set in stone, you know," he scoffs. "That boy had quite a large thermos of coffee when he went in there earlier…"

"—and you're very small," I add, to put a point on it.

He scoffs again, nearly snorting with indignation this time. "Oh, thanks! _He_ is too, you know – he comes in to see you there, he'll just slip right in beside you. You won't even notice him."

"But it's rude to just take someone else's bed without their permission," I insist.

There's a long, tense pause, and even with my eyes closed and the light out, I can feel him glaring down at me.

So I open them instead to confront him (even though I still can't see him, as the inner rooms don't have windows), "Well, you're _here_, _in_ it, so that's less rude!"

He has to be rolling his eyes, because he makes that little gagging noise he always does when he looks at the ceiling in exasperation. But he still slumps down further into the pillow without shoving me off the bed. "…Still rude."

"But the point is, you're _aware_ of it," I go on, persistent on being right. "I don't want to scare the guy if he sneaks in, in the dark, and tries to lay down on top of me."

"He may just enjoy that," Matt chuckles lowly. "I think it's been quite a while for him – you ever see him with _anyone_ since he started here? Me neither!"

I smack his arm under the duvet. "Oi! _I_ wouldn't like being laid on! And I doubt he'd like me to be the one under him."

"That question's still up for debate," he sighs sleepily.

I squint into the blackness, then turn to him. "What question?"

"Chris. You know. Same as Sendhil – never quite sure…" His eyes must be shut now, trying desperately to go to sleep whilst I keep hanging onto these meaningless discussions. At least he's finally accepted his doom to sleep next to me.

But now he's hit on something that amuses me, and I snicker, "Oh, that. Well, some people are hard to figure out. _You're_ one to talk anyway…"

Forget sleeping – I suddenly feel Matt jerk upright in the bed, glaring down at me again, perhaps harder than before. "Am I? Who's questioning _me?_" he nearly shouts – completely ruining the reason I came in _here_ in the first place…

But I can't bear to leave the little guy wondering. "We all are, mate."

Matt seems to struggle with this idea internally for a bit, but then gives up and falls back into the pillow. "Oh well," he sighs…and then mutters, "At least that's not a problem for _you_."

I feel my head twitch involuntarily. "Eh?"

"Well," he says with a giggle to his voice, "we all know who _you'd_ prefer to come crawling on top of you in bed at night…"

Now _I'm_ the one sitting up, demanding an explanation. "What's that s'posed to mean?"

"Oh, please," he groans, shoving at me carelessly as he flops onto his back. "Like we don't know who you've been drooling over for more than a year now. We knew even before you moved in."

"Why would you freaks even _talk_ about me drooling over anyone?" I squawk, completely forgetting the fact that I've done the very same thing about others… "What business is it of yours? And how would you even _know_—"

"Oh, come off it," he pleads with me wearily. "Like Noel really needs an escort to go see his mentor, for _his_ meetings – you may be an art major too, but Dr. Mortenson is _not_ your mentor! You're in a house of supposed geniuses – you think no one would notice? Besides, so you've got a thing for – or _with_ – a teacher. Not so uncommon, especially in higher educational institutions. Whether it's _ethical_ is up for debate, but personally, _I_ don't see anything so wrong with two adults gettin' it on…"

He's starting to drift off now, yawning through his words, but I'm still fumbling for a retaliation to his accusations…

Though honestly, there's no real truth in denying it…

Instead, all I get out are some stuttered, "How did you – I mean, how would you… I mean—"

"Oh, Orli, let it go," he mumbles. "It's not a big deal. And it's bloody late, so just go to sleep already. You said yourself you've got a big day tomorrow – so bloody well _sleep_ so you can get to it."

And mere seconds after he orders this, I can hear him snoring ever so lightly beside me.

So. People have a hunch, do they?

Well, fine, I think defiantly as I jerkily settle back into Matt's bed. Let them have their hunches. Their theories. Their _guesses_. No one else knows the _truth_.

And unfortunately, the _truth_ is that nothing's really happened…_yet_.


	10. 009 Chris

009 Chris - 5 -

Chris

"Did you know that the most successful electron tube for audio appliances in the nineteen-thirties was a `type forty-two' six-pin amplifier?"

I lock the master copy of my pre-made audio tape into its chamber in my self-altered stereo recording system and check the plugs connected to it from my synth. "Uhhhh-huh," I answer casually.

There's a bewildered silence behind me as I test the volume on the keyboard, making appropriate changes where necessary.

"How could you _possibly_ have known that?"

I pause in my preparations to turn to Ryan and smirk, then wave an arm over my meticulous set-up.

The small bloke (not that I should talk), whose head has been buried in one of Simon's old textbooks (which had been left in the music shed since last week), slumps his shoulders and looks back down at the pages in front of him.

"Yeah, I suppose you would, wouldn't you?"

I turn back to my work and point out, "That book was from Simon's last semester. I've read it through about three times by now. Gave it to me when he was finished with it."

"And since all this music stuff is just your _hobby_, I suppose it took priority over your _actual_ classes."

"No – I just had a fairly uneventful summer."

I can feel him rolling his eyes. "Of course – so some light textbook memorization on audio electronics was your idea of being productive during an otherwise dull time."

"_You're_ reading it _now_." I try a few chords on the keyboard until I'm satisfied, hearing him close the book over my shoulder.

"Is that the demo tape you were going to have Simon pass along to Kevin?"

Kevin, the owner of the recording studio Simon works for, has always been open to hearing new material from local artists. Since Simon works for him, not to mention Kevin and Traci have a bit of history between them, I was urged by my mate to make some official master copies of my songs for Kevin to listen to. Not that it's my intentional career path, but I'm not shy about what I create, so whether or not Kevin offers me the opportunity to record in his studio or make copies to sell, it's just a nice chance to expose a well-known local musician and producer to my stuff. This is the second tape he's asked to hear, so I'm being more particular and thoughtful about it, as he genuinely seems interested. Who knows? Maybe making a few bucks on the side could help me save up for that beautifully cheesy headless guitar I saw this summer in the music shop Simon, Matt and I frequent.

"Yeah, same one."

"I thought you'd finished that one last week."

"I did too," I sigh. "But on reflection, I realised a few songs were missing something. The melodies were already there, but I kept waking up in the middle of the night with these backing tracks that refused to go away. So I thought I'd try them out."

He's quiet again as I continue with my work. Must be sticking his nose in that book again; so I stick my head between my earphones and start playing.

I try a few rehearsal run-throughs with the master tape playing along, and when I'm happy with what I hear, I record the new material onto another tape, then mix the two together to add the final touches to the master.

Twenty minutes later, I pull my earphones off, and Ryan informs me, "Did you know that there were forty-two decks on the Enterprise in the `Next Generation' series?"

I stare down at him, earphones clutched in my hands, and tilt my head to the side. "I think I heard that before. But no, I didn't know that for sure. But the commonality between your last fact and this one suggests you're more intrigued by the number forty-two than the facts themselves."

He smiles impishly and picks up the book again – he hasn't been reading it all this time? So what's he been doing since I first started playing?

"It's a strange phenomenon, the number forty-two," he tells me proudly, as if he's just thought of it himself. "If you look hard enough, there are _countless_ appearances of it throughout history. In _any_ field or interest you choose."

I quirk an eyebrow at him. "More than forty-two?"

His grin falters and he lowers his head to the book again. "Well…yeah…"

I chuckle, hitting the rewind button on the stereo. "Interesting insight," I remark. "But not quite original – there's an iPhone application devoted to sightings or occurrences of the number forty-two. For instance, _did you know_ that two physical constants in the universe are the speed of light and the diameter of a proton, and it takes light ten to the minus _forty-second_ power seconds to cross the diameter of a proton?"

He lifts his head and stares up at me blankly – and then in awe.

I shrug nonchalantly. "It's all Douglas Adams' fault, really, concentrating on that particular number. But I'm certain you could do the same thing with plenty of other numbers." I pop the tape out and tap the top of his raised nose with it. "Try sixteen. _Then_ you'll impress me."

A consideration which flits through my head on occasion: I should have majored in music; or, I should have majored in theatre; or, I should have applied to the Cain Dion School of Fashion Design; or, I should have majored in film direction…

There are a number of things I could have done. I suppose I just didn't want to make actual careers out of any of them, lest these passions turn to "jobs" and come to bore me instead.

Not to boast, but I have to admit that I'm quite good at all of these things, in addition to my actual areas of study. I suppose I chose the more "sensible" majors on account of their market reliability, seeing as (despite a hefty scholarship which covered most of my freshman year at Baines) my parents are footing the bill for my tuition. And being an international student makes that price even higher.

It surprises many that I was, indeed, here in the House for my freshman year, as it was then still open to first year students (until Simon's antics changed that rule). So people assume that, because I'm a junior, meaning in my third year (which usually places students at twenty-one or twenty-two), I am older than I actually am. Maybe I look this way as well, though that could have been brought on by premature hard work in several areas, spending most of my teens indoors studying or experimenting, rather than being very social. Though I did spend some weekend nights at clubs as well, where I met Dee and Noel. We became fast friends on the scene, but weren't daily associates. It was a delight to meet Noel again on the first day of our freshman year when we moved into the House – though he was startled, having already known my true age. And when Dee arrived the following year, it was equally pleasant. She had known of my being there, of course, because she and Noel had communicated regularly by phone, texts, emails and letters for the year they were apart. But she still seemed stunned when she arrived and saw me there with her own eyes (despite random photos Noel had sent her which had included me).

The odds are quite amazing, three London kids who already knew each other ending up in the same special program at the same university in a different country. Unless we had planned it, which we hadn't.

Still, even with that past commonality we have between us, Noel and Dee tend to spend more time together than I do with them. This is understandable, since they've known each other since early childhood, and I was basically just an occasional third wheel on the club scene in our teens. Not that I minded. I found their dynamic amusing to witness, and spent many nights in those clubs laughing harder than I ever had before, seeing the two of them bicker and carry on like an old married couple – but a couple who happened to fancy the same sorts of blokes. If I were truly a woman, I doubt I would enjoy a night out with the husband cruising other men…for _him_. If I were a stereotypical female, that is. But, as is usual for the HIAGS, I'm not so stereotypical. I doubt I would be if I were a girl either.

Which I don't mind enacting at times. I've always enjoyed theatre, and loved the idea that, in olden days, effeminate boys played the roles of ladies. My elder sister dressing me up and playing about with my image as young children certainly introduced me to ideas most boys would cringe over, but I grew up with it and enjoyed it. My parents didn't even flinch when I continued experimenting with dress and make-up throughout the following years, even after my sister had moved out. They were used to me being that way, so nothing phased them – not that I had originally intended on doing any of it for the shock value. It was just something I _did_.

As far as sexuality, they never questioned me – I don't think they cared either way; they merely marveled at my creativity and accomplishments, whether it be designing a rather flamboyant and sexy dress, or excelling in my academics in addition to all of my "side projects" to the point of accelerating my studies so that I graduated two years early.

Hence my acceptance and arrival to Baines at sixteen years old. Granted, I turned seventeen my second semester there (January baby), but the fact was, I was the youngest House member – for _over_ a year, after the new "no freshmen" rule.

Not that a mere one or two year difference in age truly matters by this point, but this could be a reason why, despite my year of seniority over him, I tend to spend a lot of time with Ryan. Or, rather, _he _spends a lot of time with _me_. (Not that I mind; I've always been one to go my own way, even literally, and he just tends to follow.) Perhaps it's because we're around the same age and – as with a few other HIAGS – are too involved in our studies to worry or think about sexual or romantic relationships, therefore remaining mysteries to those who ponder such trivial matters.

I dare say, however, that in writing my music and creating atmospheres, I _do_ delve into a more sensual part of myself; it just so happens to be a sexually ambiguous one.

One which doesn't put Ryan off at all. Like my parents, he doesn't seem to care one way or the other, though he appreciates it and notices it more, on a clinical (almost comical) level. He doesn't have a musical gene in him (so he says), but he likes hanging out in the shed with me, whether to talk or just listen, as I work. And once in a while, if he pays attention to the lyrics, he'll offer up a shy smirk and ask something like, "Need a shag that badly, do you, Christopher?"

He's only been here since August, but already he's become oblivious to walking into the shed and finding me in a blond wig, full make-up, and a lovely pink and black silk dress I nicked from my sister before she left home. Okay, the first time he was a bit shocked, but he eventually got over it. _Now_ he's become oblivious, by mid-November.

He and I have quite interesting discussions. Most people are driven mad by his random trivia, and his lack of realising when and where it's appropriate to blurt it out. But even in just about four months, I've come to find patterns in his timing, and it _isn't_ all completely off-the-wall, out of the blue. He merely skips a few steps ahead of a conversation in his head, and his mouth takes over to point out something that the conversation would _eventually_ lead to. But most others don't see this and consider him a nuisance.

I, on the other hand, am quite intrigued by his facts – even if I can't begin to guess at how he arrives at the thoughts, I still love learning these bits of information. I'm probably the only one in the House who actually listens to the boy _every_ time he speaks – despite what he may believe. I might not always answer in a linear fashion, or stay on topic myself, but I _do_ listen and absorb what he says. I just don't always address it. Which may be why he sometimes gives me that pouting or insulted look of "Fine, ignore me like everyone else, whatever." I assured him once last month that I _do_ hear him, but after a few days, I think he forgot. Someone who needs repetitive assurance, I surmise. All right, I'll do that for him – when I want to, or feel like he _really_ needs it. I just don't like repeating myself, but if it's what he needs, then fine. Besides, it's a long way from England, I know, so reassurance to a boy of his timid nature is essential.

Maybe that's why he tends to cling to me: finding comfort in a fellow countryman. Though there are several others, but they can tend to stick together, or frighten him. Matt, Russell, even the younger Simon – they can all be a bit brash or over-the-top. My being generally quiet must have been a draw for him to warm up to. Though he and I talk a lot, contrary to what others think, neither of us are big on group discussions or throwing in our opinions. He'll just blather on about something like you'd find in an _Uncle John's Bathroom Reader_, and I'll stay perfectly silent.

But when the two of us are alone, we carry on conversations as regularly as anyone else – even if he has an open textbook on his lap and I have my back to him as I manipulate the buttons on my mixing desk.

Actually, even if there's nothing "going on" between us anyway, I'm surprised the rest of the gossip-mongers in the House still consider both of us to be _non_-sexual, rather than having some secret affair. It would be quite amusing to think they would, but honestly, I prefer them not to entertain the idea.

Not that Ryan isn't an adorable lad, as well as a sweetheart, underneath the rather unemotional fact obsession. Maybe, if I put aside my own non-sexual passions and paid a bit more attention to this thing people call a "libido" inside of me, I could fancy him a bit. Maybe more than a bit. But personally, I find there's too much other stuff to be done to worry about that whole mess.

Besides, he's not quite my type, physically speaking. (And you can interpret that however you wish, thinking I'm strictly heterosexual – except for the next bit, which will obliterate that concept anyway.)

I've already been through the sexual carousel, and it was a fun two years, but it started interfering with my _work_, and became all emotional and soppy – so the move to America was quite a relief. Getting away from all that nonsense.

Not to mention the bloke could get over it and get on with his life instead of battling himself internally for "falling in love" with someone more than half his age. Whom he was _supposed_ to be instructing on a purely _academic_ level.

_Well_, I thought as I packed my bags (annoyed that he'd gotten all gushy and heart-achey on me), _at least he won't have to panic over getting caught anymore._

I just wasn't _that_ emotionally involved, despite it carrying on for two years. Maybe I've always just been more jaded than kids my own age. I can understand lust and desire and all that – but that sort of attachment was too much for a grown man to expect from someone in his mid-teens. Unlike some people, like Russell or Noel, even Rose, I don't "fall in love" very easily. Sorry, mate, but I've still got decades to explore other possibilities – other _people_. And besides, sex is fun when you can get it, but it's just an in-between slice of life for me; the _work_ is what matters in my mind. In a way, deprivation makes for some excellent material.


	11. 010 Angelina

010 Angelina - 5 -

**A/N: Once again, this one was started out by Dr. Beanvorkian (no, she's not a real doctor, just a nice therapist for my ego).** Angelina

I love my housemates, really. They are each unique and special and wonderful. And I like to think I have a unique perspective on each of them. I try to compare them each to a country that matches their personalities and interactions with other countries/housemates. I even wrote a paper on it. I got an A.

But I suppose I spend less time at home than the others, so I do miss a lot. When I am home, I just want to be with Brad. But I do miss hanging out with Gwen and Russell and Simon…and everyone, really. Even Lily and John, although they both get on my nerves.

Jen hates me, so I can do without her, although being the object of one person's scorn creates a strange kind of validation for one's existence. Aside from being with the man she wants for herself, I don't see why she cares so much. I've been told women are often intimidated by other women who are not afraid to go after what they want. I have often heard Dr. Cuddy and Dr. Davis referred to as "bitches" by other women, but only because they are good at what they do and don't get weepy at work. I find them both admirable, especially as Dr. Cuddy is a single mom and Dr. Davis has twins. Mushy stuff is for families, authority figures don't bond with their subordinates and braid each other's hair.

But anyway, I do wish I spent more time at home these days. Senior year is supposed to be about prepping for post-graduation work, and I've been so busy making contacts with international aid groups that it wears me out. I already ruled out becoming a political aid of any sort, too controversial. Asking for help on anyone's behalf requires some ass-kissing, but I'd like to do the literal ass-kissing with my boyfriend, thanks.

Speaking of ass-kissing, Simon is trying to kiss mine as I sit down for the House meeting. Well, he swats it, anyway, and smiles at me with that stupid _grin_ that makes me laugh. I can barely hear the "Oi!" from Brad as a wad of paper hits Simon right on the forehead because I'm still laughing. Normally I would sit next to my lover, but I got to the table late and had to sit elsewhere, which is fine. I love these people.

I'm not the only late one: Noel comes crashing through like the tornado he is and can't find a seat. Russell offers his lap – he insists Noel and Katy will both fit – but Simon offers his lap as well, and it's no contest. I often wonder if Simon even realizes how much Noel has a crush on him, the rest of us sure notice!

I also don't fail to notice the smug grin on Jen's face as she is sitting next to Brad, nor do I fail to notice his pained expression due to this. My poor baby…

Traci bangs the ancient gavel on the dented wood of the table to get our attention, and Noel emits a quite accurate impersonation of a mouse as he squeaks.

"Simon, could you wait until _after_ the meeting to feel up your boyfriend?"

"Jealous, John?" Russell smirks at John, and I roll my eyes – these two are battling it out for the title of "Campus Stud," despite Russell apparently dating Katy. She doesn't seem phased, however:

"Oh, are they finally dating? Dee, did you know about this?"

"Fuck no, but it's about fucking bloody time!"

And Orlando, dear heart: "Ugh, fucking bloody. That just sounds so wrong…"

"Well, if a woman is menstruating—"

"_SHUT UP, RYAN!_"

Poor thing reels back as we all yell, but it had to be done – we don't need to be told the mechanics of sex while menstruating. We get it.

"Christ," I hear Chris mutter to his buddy. "I don't mind indulging you all the time, I'm probably the only one here who _does_, but even _I_ don't wanna hear about that!"

Traci, meanwhile, is sitting calmly, fingers steepled like a priest about to hear confession. He waits for a lull in the chaos, until we all peek at him, to raise his eyebrow (just the one…) and say:

"Okey dokey, shall we begin?"

I must admit, I did some modeling in my teens to make a little money on the side. Since my parents broke up and my father was barely there for us, we weren't very wealthy. So I got jobs as a model for local dress stores and such. I don't regret it, as I then didn't need to ask my mother for money she didn't have, but I always try to point out that it was completely innocent work – just pictures for catalogues and the like. A few photographers hinted that I could be more than just a frozen snapshot for Macy's or whatever (God, two even tried _hitting_ on me – a girl of fifteen, sixteen years old? What scum!), but I always had more ambition than "supermodel." I'll concede to the idea that that line of work _can_ be full of pressure and stress, the image being the most important thing and to hell with the poor girls' mental states and possible eating disorders or drug addictions. But some of them like it – or _need_ it: hell, even strippers or porn stars need to pay the rent. It's a stereotype to think they're _all_ braindead fools.

In fact, if anything, they're smart in knowing what sells. And sex _sells_.

But personally, I enjoy more social and intellectual stimuli, hence my forgoing a career in modeling or whatever. I _do_ love acting, and I'll be honest and say my looks could definitely fetch me several parts in films others would die for. But looks aren't everything. So I'm hot – so what? Does that make me better than an average or overweight girl with acne problems? Certainly not. I was just lucky to have inherited my mother's genes – she always struck me as one of the most beautiful goddesses ever, inside and out. Her encouragement of my independence, my urges to study and work hard, _and_ to nurture my creative side all helped inspire my choices in life.

That's why I decided to take on the arduous task of dual majors _and_ a minor in drama – to keep my interests and priorities all there, but straight. As much as I love theater and performance and want it to be part of my life, my more personally favorable areas are International Relations and Political Science. Besides feeding my own ego and urge to do something the least bit artistic, I _need_ the means to exercise my left brain, and I _want_ to make a difference in the injustice I see around me in this world.

So when Traci practically _begged_ me to sign on for the HIAGS – after establishing it was nothing to do with looks (I've become wary of that detail in my life) – I was all for it. The chances it provided the specialized students was all it really took. He didn't _have_ to beg. But as soon as he came across my application to Baines, _he_ contacted _me_, before I was even aware that I was a suitable candidate. Of course I'd heard of the House, but this happened before applications to it were available.

My first three years here were fantastic – not that this one isn't, but it's definitely more time-consuming, as I've said.

Unfortunately, my one night free this week, Brad is busy helping Dr. Barrowman put together the first stages of the mid-year drama production, so I can't spend a few hours snuggling with my baby and relaxing.

I _can_, however, enjoy those hours watching Gwen try to coax some House members into joining me to be one of her models so she can work on her designs. She has mannequins in the third floor workspace, but she prefers having live people, as not only do body dimensions differ and offer a challenge, but she likes _interacting_ with her subjects and getting a response or feedback. It's nice to be able to indulge once in a while, and wearing a half-frilly, half-saucy split dress with ridiculously high heels, chasing down House members as we giggle like teenagers and bang on doors, is the perfect way to do it.

Gwen would not fare well at all in any one of my Political Science classes; but she's darling, and fun to be around. Her fashion sense has helped me a few times in the past ("the epitome of strong female in the big business world of men, but not too boring to suggest `bitch'") when I would go to meet people with Dr. Davis to discuss grants for underprivileged high school students who wanted to apply to Baines – that sort of thing.

But tonight is devoted to her own unique and crazy style of attire, and even some of the House members who would normally be okay to stand there for an hour in a rather bland skirt while Gwen sews on sequins or lace are running in fear. Dee sees the (admittedly) gaudy minidress Gwen's come up with, and despite Gwen's assurances that she's going to change it to something better, Dee insists she prefers the punk path Gwen had toyed with last month. Russell says he probably wouldn't mind, but he'd rip the seams – far too tall (and we don't want any dangling parts to get stuck where they don't belong, in spite of his jokes that "they don't dangle _that_ far, love, but still…").

Jen refuses purely on the grounds that she doesn't want to be in the same room with me if she doesn't have to – though her actual words are, "I'm studying." (For what? Her next semester's academic probation?) Lily insists it's too degrading, something about the female body being misused to represent sex and is that all we're to be ogled for?

What a spoil sport.

Unfortunately, Katy is out tonight, but we manage to snare Rose into our antics – meaning she asks if there's a particularly colorful but tattered piece to the collection, and leaps eagerly to our side when Gwen nods.

But Gwen frets that she still needs two more. After getting Rose loosely into her garment (which she immediately adores, even though Gwen says there are alterations to be made – hence needing "models" in the first place), we saunter around surreptitiously to find more victims. Er, models.

Too bad there aren't more women here, but on the other hand, we have quite a nice handful of boys on the – let's say – _slender_ side… (I don't want to offend anyone by saying "girly boys" or "effeminate," though I doubt they would protest or even care…)

As soon as we catch Sendhil in the dining room, Gwen at the head of the pack with two decked-out lovelies behind her, he shrieks (like a girl) and dives behind the door to the basement.

"You're not gonna go after him?" Rose asks as Gwen walks straight past the door.

"Nah," our leader answers in a considering tone. "He'll be better for my _other_ line catering to males, but that's not due until next month."

"Well," I assure her confidently, "when the time comes, we'll be ready and willing to tie him down for you."

"Oh, sweetie, you're so thoughtful!" she squeaks with a dainty clap of her manicured fingers.

"So, seeing as you're being more specific than usual – needing a busty but slim prototype for my dress and a traditionally hourglass figure for Rose's, then turn down a more masculine Sendhil and beg a small and slight Dee – what are the prerequisites for the final two candidates?"

Gwen pauses to glance back at me, squinting vaguely. "Ummm…" She smiles sheepishly. "I'm not sure what—"

"She means," Rose translates, "what sorts of body types do your designs need? You've got Angie who's skinny with big boobs, me with a Monroe figure, so what kinda bodies do you need for the other two, since you're being pickier about it than usual?"

"Oh! Sorry, Angie, you just have a bigger vocabulary than me."

Such a sweetheart! She's so friendly, but knows her limits and acknowledges them without fretting over them – but her designs, talent and creativity are beyond stellar. Which was why she was a shoo-in for the Dion School.

"Um, tall and slender, but not _too_ thin for a girl, and small and skinny, like a teenage girl."

Rose nods confidently as we exchange glances, and turns to head upstairs. This time Gwen follows along behind us, as Rose and I both know exactly whom to go to.

When Rose enters her own room again, Dee immediately screams and dives for her bed, cowering under the blankets with a desperate, "_I said no!_"

Rose giggles and pats the lump on the bed. "Don't worry, chick, it ain't you we're after." She turns a keen eye on the other form in the room, settled comfortably on Katy's bed with the omnipresent sketchbook resting on his legs. And wide eyes gaping back at us.

"Wh-What, me?" Noel chirps, startled – as if he hasn't been one of Gwen's targets before. Honestly, in three years, he should be used to it by now.

"C'mon," I urge, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him off the bed. "You know the routine – just add some balloons and it'll be a perfect fit."

He only protests a little, but slides off the bed easily. "For random assignments or projects, sure, but not for a very integral _midterm_—"

"Don't worry, love!" Gwen assures him in a fake British accent, welcoming the tall non-"bloke" into our fold with an outstretched arm. "You're perfect for the part! Tall and sturdy – for a _girl's_ body anyway…"

He sputters and gawks in confusion, but ultimately we've won out on this one.

Now, for the teenage girl.

Rose and I lead the way as Gwen pulls Noel along with their arms hooked together like prom dates.

"B-But my sketchbook – it fell, I left it on Katy's bed—"

"You can get it later," Rose assures him. "If Katy comes home before Gwen's through, she'll give it to Dee to return."

The boy's got to be genetically linked to that thing, I swear. Though inevitably the sketchbooks fill up and he has to switch to a new one eventually. He'll get over the separation anxiety.

Finally, the four of us make it outside and start the trek to the music shed, which is a bit tough, considering high heels don't do well in loose dirt and grass. But we reach our destination and Rose swings the door open to let in the fast-retreating daylight, causing the three occupants – Simon, Chris and Ryan – to yell wordlessly in pain and throw their arms up to shield eyes which have become accustomed to the two dim lightbulbs inside.

"What the f—" But Simon shuts up and drops his arms, eyes widening and smile taking up half his face when he sees three pretty girls – and Noel – standing in front of him. "Oi, you come to be my inspiration?" he asks hopefully.

"No," Rose answers plainly. "We've come to fetch _Gwen's_ inspiration." She eyes them all up one at a time – easily dismissing Simon within half a second – then focuses in on the smaller two. "Okay, who wants to be a teenage girl for a few hours?"

Ryan looks terrified, clutching an open textbook to his chest. "Um…I've never been a mannequin before – I don't think I can be still for that long…"

Without hesitation, Chris sighs and tosses his headphones onto his mixing board. "Okay, let's do it."

Actually, as Gwen grins her approval when he steps into the group, I notice how he almost seems _eager_ to slide into something silky and feminine.

Such a help we all are to each other! Which is another reason I love these people.


	12. 011 Noel

011 Noel - 6 -

Noel

It's hard being me sometimes.

Okay, not really, but I thought that would be a great line to start with.

At the moment, however, it _is_ a little difficult. See, even if it's November, we're having a bit of a heatwave this week, plus some of our House members are more immune to chilly weather, having grown up in the colder parts of the Midwest or, well, Scotland. So for a bit of fun, a bunch of us decided to have a football – er, _soccer_ – game to relieve the stress of awaiting results of our midterms.

Not everyone here's the sporting type, but some of us are, "some" including surprising individuals. Me, for instance. I'm all about fashion and art and being a bit…well, _gay_, basically. But I'm actually quite good at and enjoy playing footb—_soccer_. (And no, not just for the hot, sweaty men running up and down the pitch – that's just a bonus.)

Another "surprise" is Remy, who actually isn't much of a surprise, as she's always struck me as a closeted jock. Not butch, really, but active and tough in her own way. And Zach – I know he's a well-built bloke, but I didn't realise _how_ well-built, or that he liked sports at all. I guess the others feel the same way about me, but between the two of us artists, he'd probably be the more likely enthusiast. Yet I never got that off him.

Brad and Jesse are no surprise – they keep up with the leagues anyway. _All_ of them, American "soccer" _and_ international "football."

John is trying to coax attention his own way by settling outside with us, where most of the other girls (besides Angie, who's not home) are cheering us all on – both teams, amusingly. Sitting there with his guitar, dressed in a black trench coat he really doesn't need in this weather. Laughably, he's only getting the attention of one girl, Jen, who thinks her appraisal of John will somehow make Brad – who is way too into the game (and his _girlfriend_) to even notice – jealous.

But even if John isn't that into Jen, he seems to gloat about winning her attention over the shirtless blokes on the field (well, shirtless besides me, Remy…and _Gwen!_) – though Jen's attention is actually shifting back and forth between him and Brad, constantly checking to see if the _real_ hunk is watching her dote on the _fake_ hunk's ego.

Yes, you read correctly. Gwen. That's the _most_ surprising bit, I think. But Ms. Fashion Bug herself is in here amongst us hooligans, shoving her way around and giggling with delight – and actually doing quite well! And when she scores a goal against a not very forgiving Jesse, who refuses to play nicer just because she's a girl, she screeches with girlish glee and hops over to force a victorious hug on Remy.

It's fantastic, so I can't help laughing. Even if my own attention is mainly taken up by one specific shirtless man on the field – another no-brainer for the sport, as he's a staunch Rangers fan.

I could go on and on about why I like the guy so much, including talent, friendliness, his easy and contagious laughter, the twinkle in his gorgeous eyes which tell of his great sense of humour and personality…but at the moment, my eyes and libido can only focus on the purely superficial vision of Simon's chest muscles, his toned tattooed arms, his immaculate overall physique…Not that the others aren't equally matched – fuck, Jesse's boyfriend Omar (who _should_ be in the House, really, but chose a specific fraternity instead – despite all of our pleas to join us) is built like a bloody _bull!_

But my own keen eyes can't be swayed from watching Simon. The others may think this is a good thing, as he's on the opposing team, but really it's just an excuse to be able to ogle him openly without anyone questioning why…

Oh, I'm not _that_ stupid. I'm sure many people are either aware of it or just suspect, but I think I've been infatuated with the Scottish Romeo since I met him. Over three years ago. And in all that time, where I'm usually _too_ affectionate with people (including the rare ones I feel something more for emotionally), I still lack the nerve to say or do anything about it. Probably an ultimate fear of rejection, or putting him off, as I've only seen him show a true interest in girls – and teasingly flirting with other boys for a laugh doesn't count. Even if he's doing it with me, like offering his lap during House meetings.

I suppose my "secret" feelings for him are just stronger and more serious than they've been for others I've fancied in the past. Like, it really _matters_ this time, and I'm too afraid to fuck it up, because I'd be devastated if it went wrong and our friendship was ruined by it.

Dee is the only one I've actually talked to about it, and of course her suggestion is to just go for it. But I _can't_. I freeze up and go mute, then crack a joke to ease the tension. Granted, that wins me a lovely smile in return, but it doesn't get across what I _mean_ to say. I'm sure some others know – but _he_ doesn't show any signs of seriously suspecting it.

Well…okay, so maybe he's a bit nicer to me than he is to others, which can be hard to detect in someone who's generally a very congenial person anyway. But after three years, it's impossible to deny it. Like he has an especially soft spot just for me. Like letting me take a shower with him (honestly, no "funny business" went on that time, but it was funny enough in another way to gloat over it later). But that still doesn't necessarily mean he'd reciprocate my _genuine_ feelings.

It can be so tedious…like right now, seeing him half naked and running around with the other boys…and trying _not_ to let on _how_ much I'm enjoying this opportunity.

Oh, _sigh!_ (A syllable which is _needed_ in saying the name "Simon"…In my head, "Simon" automatically becomes "Sigh-man.")

It doesn't help matters when Traci – _Traci!_ – pulls into the driveway and comes around the side of the house to present the clan with a few twelve-packs of beer. Saying he'll let it slide this time, as it's the weekend and we've all been working so hard, even after midterms were over. He doesn't join in the actual game, but pops open a can as he settles beside the cheerleaders (smirking as he accepts a makeshift pom-pom from Dee). The others all rush over to partake in the feast, and I even saunter toward the pile, but hesitate. See, I have a liver condition that makes it a bit difficult for me to break down alcohol in my system, but once in a while I'll cheat a bit.

And when Simon himself comes over to hand me one – with a careful look in his eyes and a warning of, "Just the one, aye?" – I fold completely and accept it.

A few minutes later, we're back in the game…and half an hour later, after various people return again and again to the ever-diminishing stacks, the game has turned into more of a free-for-all tumbling session. I notice Sendhil has come up from the basement lab to watch, taking a seat next to Traci and accepting a beer gratefully, but I also note that he's _watching_ quite a bit of Zach in particular.

Interesting, I giggle to myself. I wonder if Sendhil's even aware of Zach's "secret" infatuation with _him_, but this is definitely a positive sign…

But then I get distracted, as Simon's gotten all touchy-feely with the opposing team, leaping on Remy's back and dragging her down to the ground, making her laugh uproariously to knock it off. And then he rushes over and – as I stand frozen in shock – tackles _me_ to the ground, tickling and giggling uncontrollably. Which, of course, sends _me_ into (euphoric) hysterics. But all too soon, he leaves me – a worthless, limp heap – as he races after the ball. I can barely lift my head, breathless, but manage to catch sight of Jesse kicking the ball to him, and he makes a glorious headbutt to send it sailing into the goal – but the blow exceeds his expectations and plunges instead into the pond just beyond the intended goal.

Oh God. Now my stomach's going to hurt all day tomorrow – not from the one can of beer, but from the hysterical laughter that engulfs me.

God, do I love that goofball!

I'm lucky to catch Simon early enough on a morning when he doesn't have work but is still out of bed long before his classes start. A rare opportunity, as we all know how much he cherishes his sleep.

As I sit at the kitchen table with my books for the day's classes and my sketchbook, I watch his back whilst he pours himself a thermos of coffee – straight black, I've discovered by now. He takes a long swig of it before exhaling loudly and proclaiming, "Just what I needed."

He turns around to me and I try to pretend that I haven't been watching him like a hawk. But when I eye up his clothes surreptitiously as he shuffles over and takes a seat across from me at the table, I have to smirk – in place of a cringe.

"Are you actually wearing that to your classes?" I chuckle in bemusement, referring to his ratty, loose, off-pink tee shirt which hangs pretty low on his chest (not that I'm complaining), an equally tattered thin gray sweater jacket, and torn jeans which look like he bought them in the mid-nineties.

He glances down at himself, then shrugs. "Why not? Don't see what the problem is. Just pop on my boots and I'm ready to go."

I snicker, perfectly aware of how much more put-together I look, with my shiny skin-tight trousers and black leather shirt, covered by one of my favourite warm coats, deep forest green with a (fake) fur trim. And, of course, my glittering silver platform boots.

But I guess to each his own. Besides, he doesn't look so bad in the rugged, scruffy attire. Loose and laid-back, just like him.

"I don't think my instructors care what I wear to class," he smiles as he sips at his coffee. "As long as I show up with something _on_. You're more in tune with the fashion world. I'll leave that to the experts."

I consider this, flattered that he doesn't say it with a hint of sarcasm, and finish spreading my melted Nutella on toast, taking a dainty bite.

"This is nice," he muses softly, gazing out the window behind me at the bright sunlight pouring in, with a serene smile on his face, before turning it onto me. "Very relaxing. Good company, too, this early. Nothin' could ruin this…"

I try to hide my sheepish grin, then clear my throat. "So, what I wanted to ask you—"

And before I can get the question out, Jen comes padding into the room, yawning and running a hand through her bedhead hair. Then she halts, letting out a cry, and demands, "Who drank all the coffee?"

Simon immediately slouches, rolling his eyes. "Okay, maybe _one_ thing could ruin it…" And he starts to stand, gesturing with his head for me to follow him.

"Oh, forget it," Jen huffs, making a racket as she slams through the cupboards. "I'll just make my own."

"Aye," Simon grinds out. "That's usually what we _all_ do."

Just as I start to lift myself from my chair, Jen slams a cupboard shut and snipes, "Nevermind!" And she storms out of the room.

Simon pauses, listening intently with giant eyes, then looks at me before nodding and settling back down. "Okay, I think the coast is clear…"

But a second later, Jen comes stomping back into the kitchen, and Simon's on his feet again, muttering, "Christ, woman, make up your bloody mind…"

She pours a bowl of cereal, dodges Simon irritably as she goes for the milk in the fridge, and just as I'm uncertainly rising to my feet again, the two collide in the doorway.

"Jesus!" Jen snaps. "Would you cut it out?"

"Cut what out?" Simon snaps back, just as cranky. "Are you goin' or stayin'? Just pick a fuckin' room and _stay_ there!"

"I'm going to the den!"

"Good! Go, then! Get outta here, I'm not stoppin' ya!"

"I _am!_"

"Then _go!"_ He waves his arm furiously at her, as if wanting to shove her out of the kitchen (and maybe to the floor) himself.

"I _would_ but you're in my way!" she hurls at him with a heavy scoff.

"I am not, I'm going back to the table…" And he does just that as she remains in the doorway. When she hasn't moved for half a second, he shouts, "_WOULD YOU GET THE FUCK OUT ALREADY!"_

_ "I'M GOING!"_

_ "THEN __**GO!**__"_

_ "FINE! GLADLY!"_

And she finally disappears.

If that hasn't jerked everyone else out of their sleep, I guess the next step is a train breaking through the house.

Simon sits down across from me again, mumbling, "Bloody useless whiney pain-in-the-arse whore." Then he clears his throat and turns his lovely smile back to me, as if the previous scene never happened. "So you were saying?"

I snicker a little at the past tension – nay, _hatred_ – they displayed for each other in just a few moments, but then focus on the _real_ subject at hand.

"Right," I go on, a bit timidly – not because of his rare display of anger and annoyance, but because of what I'm about to ask him. "I was just wondering if, um, you would mind, um, if I could possibly, um, paint you."

He raises his eyebrows as he gulps down some more coffee, then suggests with a sly grin, "You mean, like, you want me to strip and you'll splatter it on me? That sounds like fun…"

I giggle nervously, assuring him, "Er, no – though I agree that would be kind of interesting…"

"I'm all for it, mate."

"Er, no, actually. I just mean, would you be a subject for my painting?"

_Not that I haven't already sketched you in secret hundreds of times over the last three years_ – but this is actually serious.

"Like a model?"

"Yeah, exactly. For a class."

He looks intrigued, but then quirks a cautious eyebrow at me. "Now, hang on – I've seen some of your work, and while it's all cool 'n funky 'n shit, with the weird creatures and almost abstract stuff, am I gonna be some kinda freaked-out monster?"

I pretend to scoff, but can't help laughing genuinely instead. "No, no, no – it's a true-to-life painting. Realistic, not just imagination. A study in painting what you see with your eyes, as opposed to what your mind can conjure up."

He suddenly looks disappointed. "Oh…Well, can we do a monster painting anyway? Maybe at winter break?"

I perk up in pleasant surprise. "Sure – I wouldn't have to wait that long, though…"

"But as for this specific assignment…" He looks intrigued. "Is it a nude?"

I try not to gulp too loudly, and cover it with another good-natured giggle. "Uh, not quite. It's supposed to be a portrait of someone doing something they'd do naturally – preferably clothed—" (so says the instructor, not _me_) "—but not just a bland, sitting-there-staring-at-the-camera type of thing, but not too, like, action-based either. Another student is painting her friend, who's an English major, staring out the window with a book in her hands…That sorta thing."

His eyes widen at the prospect. "Oooh! You mean, like, painting me chugging a keg? Or, like, strangling Jen?"

I titter again, informing him, "I was thinking more like a painting of you playing guitar or something. You know. Something you do every day and seems like a typical thing, but if seen from the perspective of a portrait, can be quite beautiful…" And I feel my cheeks start to burn at the utterance of my last few words.

He sits back, peering at the ceiling in thought – thankfully not leaping on my little _obvious_ slip and cackling over it. He's seriously considering it. "Ah, I see."

"It's just for a class," I reiterate quickly, as if trying to convince him without seeming too desperate.

He shrugs. "Aye, you said that already."

"Oh…" I bow my head shyly, biting my lip, and glance up at him with blatant hope in my half-hidden eyes. "So…d'you think you'd like to?"

He instantly shatters my fears and anxiety by shrugging again, as if I've just asked to borrow his pen. "Sure, no problem. When do you need me?"

Oh, mate – all the time…

"Uh, maybe if you're not busy tonight…"

He nods enthusiastically. "Cool. I'm free. It's a date, then."

And as he stands to go fetch his boots, the burning in my cheeks I felt before has returned with a vengeance, and I'm sure he can see it this time – with that particular wording especially, I just can't help it…

He beams that gorgeous smile at me from behind his thermos of coffee and winks as he takes a sip, before leaving the kitchen. Leaving me to sigh dreamily into the empty room.

Well, that's done it for me – nothing can spoil my day now!


	13. 012 Sendhil

012 Sendhil - 4 -

Sendhil

Dude, I have no fucking clue what goes on around here. Seriously, I'm no busier than any other pre-med schmoe, but somehow I miss _everything_.

Did you know Noel has a crush on Simon? And Orlando's crush on Dr. Mortensen is actually pretty serious! And how about John having the hots for Angie? Although everyone here's got something for that chick, guess that's not really news..

But it's, like, ridiculous! Am I that oblivious?

Take Zach, for example. Quiet, shy, reclusive dude. Does his own thing, doesn't bother anyone. Takes his shirt off outside one day when the big (drunk) dudes wanna play soccer (the ball went in the pond, the idiots went after the ball, they all tried to rescue each other from drowning, yelling, "You're drunk, you can't swim!", the ball was forgotten, need I go on?), and, holy Hannah, is quiet dude built like a brick shithouse! All muscle, washboard abs, hairy chest, and damn!

I haven't told anyone here I'm gay; hell, I only told my folks I'm bi. In an Indian family it's unheard of. I said bi so they'd think I could still fall for a girl and have kids. And when I stay focused on my career they'll be so proud…Problem solved! For now.

But here, I figured people would just _know_. I always hear about this "gaydar" people have, so I figured they'd know about me. I figured they _knew_ about me and just didn't care.

Oblivious!

There's, like, a bet or something going on about my sexuality! No one knows! I'm stuck between offended and proud! And, dude, Simon seems to think I was spawned in a lab and had my libido removed! Poor Matt believes him!

Oblivious!

But I guess I'm not the only oblivious – or gullible – one here. And it's not like Si doesn't try conning Matt into believing the most absurd things anyway. So I don't feel _so_ alone.

Like right now, Si's trying to tell Matt that there's, like, an Area 5_3_ being built in, like, Omaha, Nebraska, as we speak – to store the alien bodies that have, like, made it to Earth in the last ten years or so but didn't survive.

"You mean you haven't heard?" Simon's gawking in that make-believe shock he always uses on the tiny dude when he tries these tricks (which, if they don't work, at least get Matt _wondering_). "It's not been in all the papers, of course – they wanna keep it quiet, obviously. But I'd think _you_ would've known about it, since you're a member of all those online clubs devoted to that sorta thing. I mean, how could _I_ know about it and you _not?_"

"Maybe," I utter through gritted teeth, "'cause it's, like, _bullshit_."

But Matt's eying him up warily across the dining room table, half trying to study and half, like, absorbed in Simon's babble.

Dude, even _I_ wouldn't fall for _that_.

So Matt mumbles something indecipherable and turns back to his books, as I peek up from my own, and Simon shoves himself out of his chair.

"Well, suit yourself," Simon sighs dramatically as he heads for the kitchen – probably on his way to the music shed. "Let yourself get left in the dark whilst all your alien-loving buddies find out more…" And he trails off as he leaves the room.

I study Matt over my textbook, watching the little dude struggle with staying focused on his, like, _actual_ work. But I can tell he's bothered by it.

"C'mon, dude," I reason when he starts twitching sporadically. "You don't actually _believe_…"

"Of course not," Matt scoffs indignantly. "Something _that_ big coming from the mouth of someone who doesn't know the first thing about Area 5_1?_" He blows a raspberry and turns back solely to his studies.

Well, he _pretends_ to. Five minutes later, he's cursing under his breath and heading upstairs. I sigh in defeat, as if, like, _I'm_ the one Simon was trying to trick.

"It's bullshit, Matthew," I call to him, but he either doesn't hear me or pretends not to.

If I follow him, I know I'll inevitably find him in the computer room, logging into all his "club" forums to, like, confirm it by checking others' discussions, or ask about it himself. But I can't bear to see the kid humiliate himself – _again_.

So I turn back to my assignment – like, just barely suppressing a giggle.

Of course, I end up going up to the computer lab eventually. Try to, like, dissuade the little spaz from making himself into _too_ much of an asshole online. When I get there, I see him typing away rabidly, probably on one of his forums or something. Damn, too late.

I also notice Zach at the other end of the room, no doubt working on an assignment (Graphic Design major). He glances up now and then to snicker at Matt, but otherwise he's glued to his own computer.

After seeing him half naked the other day, though, I can't, like, be in the same room with him with_out_, like, _thinking_ about it. So I try to distract myself by focusing on Matt's dilemma.

"You gone sane again yet?" I ask, resting a hand on the back of his chair to peek over his shoulder at the screen. It's filled up by a huge rectangle, which is surrounded by images of your typical UFO, and contains inner boxes with names and subject titles. He's already gone and made a fool of himself by submitting the entry "Mattocaster90 – subject: Area 53 in Nebraska?" There are two responses, in just, like, two minutes! Both calling him a psycho who doesn't know what sources to trust…but they'll look into it anyway…

"Cor," he huffs, glaring at the screen. "No one else mentioned it either. Went through the whole damn forum from the past two days – _nothing_."

I pat him on the shoulder and remind him, "It _was_ Simon who said it."

"I know," he whines, slumping back and folding his arms over his chest stubbornly. "But with him I can never tell…Sometimes his hunches turn out to be true…"

Forgetting Zach's in the room, I scoff and announce loudly, "I do too have a libido! And I'm not some freakish petri dish baby, for fuck's sake!"

Matt glances up at me furtively, and I notice Zach peering over at me questioningly too. Damnit!

"Methinks thou doth protest too much," Matt quips, cocking an eyebrow at me.

Embarrassed by my own outburst, I reel back and point to him accusingly. "Don't take it out on me just 'cause Si went 'n fooled you _again!"_

"The final verdict isn't _in_ yet!" Matt protests passionately. "BeyondGlobalExplorer and ETRoots are checking it out for me! They said—"

"Oh, and you trust _them_ too, do ya? You'll trust anyone! Have you ever even met _any_ of these people before?"

Matt hesitates, clearing his throat, and mumbles, "Not really…Well, I ran into Stargazer71 at a convention over the summer—"

"Oh, fuck Stargazer71!"

"I _did_," he admits smugly. "_Proving_ I have a libido – haven't seen or heard _anything _about you confirming that."

My heart racing in my chest – not knowing why I'm getting all, like, flustered over the twit's teasing – I sputter out, "It's just…a stupid…_joke_, Matthew! Another silly prank! Simon's playing you for a fool – as usual. And, as usual, you're _falling_ for it!"

Matt smiles up at me, then pats my arm condescendingly. "It's all right, mate – we don't all have luck in the whole sex area anyway. Even if you had a libido, what use would it be to you?"

I feel my face flush and try not to look over at Zach – but the dude suddenly comes to my defense and adds from his corner, "Maybe he gets more action than all of us put together and just doesn't gloat about it 'cause he's got principles. Wouldn't surprise me."

Matt and I both gawk at him, but he turns back to his screen without another word.

I cough and look down on Matt with forced pride. "Yeah – who says I ain't, like, gettin' a bit on the side when I'm not hanging around here?"

Matt eyes me up suspiciously. "Because you're _always_ hanging around here."

"I am not!"

He shakes his head, turning his attention back to the forum. "Whatever, mate."

At his flippant dismissal, I shove his chair in sharply, slamming him into the table edge and making him squeak, and holler, "If you're so sure about Simon's stupid story about _me_, why don't you just go to Nebraska yourself and prove him wrong? Then maybe you'll rethink the ridiculous ideas about _me_ he put in your head too!"

He straightens in his chair, recovering himself, and peers up at me strangely.

_Oh God_, I think, rolling my eyes. _He's actually considering it…_

"Matt, c'mon, dude!" I plead with him. "It was another _joke!_ It's almost the end of the semester, you don't wanna, like, fuck up your grades _now_ by taking a pointless trip out to the middle of nowhere just 'cause Simon claims there's some alien thingy out there—"

"Well, you know the old game, `Simon Says'…"

"Yeah," Zach puts in again. "Wasn't that just a childhood introduction to the concept of tyranny?"

We both stare at him again, realizing the impact of his words.

"Damnit," Matt sighs, shutting the computer down. "That evil dick—"

"Well, if you're gonna be that easily swayed by his mere suggestions, no matter _how_ nonsensical they sound, maybe you _deserve_ to be tyrannized by him," I sneer.

"Hey, Sendhil," Zach calls before Matt and I leave the room. Without looking at us, he tells me, "Did you know that in the latest Webster's Dictionary, there was a glitch, and `gullible' was accidentally omitted?"

I stare back at his profile, eyes wide. "Really?"

"They found the problem early and discontinued it, recalled a bunch and amended the error before continuing the printing of it. But if you find one without that word in it, that book's worth _tons_."

I blink in surprise…

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Matt groans, stomping out of the room. "I think Simon's disease is spreading…"

But as I stand there, continuing to gawk at Zach, the other dude turns to face me finally…and smiles shyly.

"Too much?"

I let out a jovial laugh, waving him off. "That was good, though – almost had me!"

He shrugs nonchalantly, and I leave him to his homework.

…Not an hour later, like some OCD patient in the middle of a ritual, I'm sifting and scrounging through every damn room in the house, snatching any book I find to see if it's a Webster's.

Okay. I guess I shouldn't, like, make fun of Matt so much…I'm an idiot too.

But then we literally smack into each other groping for a particular volume in a bookcase in the den, and exchange bashful glances.

I'm not alone! _Oblivious!_


	14. 013 Simon

013 Simon - 6 -

Simon

I'm proud to say, I've finally got Noel down on the floor on all fours…

"This isn't gonna work," he warns me dubiously.

"Sure it will!" I urge him in my most cheerful voice.

"It _won't_."

I scoff and join him on the floor, nudging his shoulder with my own – as I take my place behind my Slinky.

(Had you there, didn't I?)

"Well, c'mon, we all know these things never work. But it's worth a shot!"

He smirks over at me. "It's a winding staircase, Si – if it don't work on _normal_ staircases, how the fuck will it work on a _winding_ staircase?"

I shrug. "Don't know until we try, eh?"

Two hours of guitar-playing and painting later, Noel and I are trying our equally nimble, dexterous fingers at something a bit more challenging. Since he's being stubborn and won't let me see his finished product until it's dry – probably not until it's been graded, for fuck's sake – I'm torturing him with this sort of stupidity. Not that it's really torture for him; I didn't even have to loan him one of mine, he had an old-school metal Slinky of his very own. That should say something about the mentality level we share.

We gear up, me making revving noises and everything for effect, not caring if it's one in the morning and the others on the floor in this corridor are sleeping – and then we set 'em loose!

Well, try to, anyway. Inevitably, after the first two or three steps, both Slinkies malfunction and end up just tumbling over each other into regular, immobile stacks – after bouncing off the side wall…

"Damnit!" I giggle as I go to retrieve them. "It's a winding staircase, Noel, I _told_ you it wouldn't work!"

And as he rolls his eyes, Allison appears above him in her sweatsuit night attire, arms over her chest.

"Hey," I greet her, holding out a Slinky. "Wanna challenge the winner of the next round?"

She cocks an eyebrow at me, obviously disapproving. "No thanks. Just wanted to remind you that _we're_ all trying to _sleep_."

I hold up my hands in defence. "Oops! Sorry, didn't realise…" Lying through my teeth – and she knows it.

She can't help but smirk. "Yeah, right. Mind taking it elsewhere, boys?"

"Sure, no problem." And as she heads back to her room, I call, "Sleep sweetly, dream girl! Oh, wait, or is that, `sweet dreams, sleepy girl'? Or, `wet dreams, sloppy girl'—"

She pauses in her doorway to give me that exasperated but indulgent smirk again. "Thank you, Simon. `_Goodnight_' is sufficient." And she closes the door.

"Oh, okay then – goodnight!"

I reach the top of the staircase and Noel gets to his feet.

"Don't think she heard you. Oh well. The back staircase is straight anyway—"

But I hold up a hand to silence him, then tip-toe down the hall to the closed door. And, taking a deep breath, I launch the door open and shout into the dark room, "_GOODNIGHT, ALLISON!"_

"Christ!" snaps Lily from the darkness, and I know she's the one who throws something hard at the door. "Fuck off, you son of a bitch!"

Remy, meanwhile, lurches up in her bed and babbles groggily, "'S 'at Simon? Fuck, man, lemme have my coffee first…" But she collapses back into her pillows with a chuckle.

Allison, of course, sits up and replies patiently, "Goodnight, Simon."

"_HAVE A GOOD DAY TOMORROW!"_

"Fuck off, you pratt!" Grouchy Lily.

"It's already tomorrow, you retard," Remy giggles.

"Again, thank you, Simon." Allison the mother. "Now close the door."

"_OKAY, MUMMY!_"

When I turn back to Noel, he's doubled over laughing, covering his mouth with a hand to keep quiet – dunno why, as I've already ruined this entire floor's peaceful night.

"C'mon," I wave at him, leading the way to the back staircase. "The other one's straight anyway. What were you thinkin', you fool? A _winding_ staircase? Jesus…"

After that endeavor fails as well – though we do get further than only a few steps – we head down to the basement. He leads me through the makeshift lab to the side darkroom, where many of his photography projects (academic or hobby) are coming together. I marvel at his work – or, at least, _try_ to, but he distracts me away from the rows of drying pictures he hung up this afternoon to produce a plastic bin full of cleverly hidden genuine 1980's Matchbox cars!

For almost two more hours, we try racing the little metal toys around the tiny room, then dare to take it further out into the lab. Between the Slinkies, the cars, and various other odds and ends we pick up off the floor or find on shelves (as long as they're not labeled, they're not dangerous or the property of anyone else), by four in the morning we're a heap of delirious giggles in the middle of the lab, covered by our own silly toys. I know I could stand to do this another five hours after all the coffee I had today. But I can tell Noel's exhausted. He never once suggests going to bed, though. So when I glance over at him after taking about five straight minutes to catch my breath, I find the boy passed out on the floor beside me, a grin still touching his lips.

It's such a cute little scene that I don't want to disrupt it. But I wouldn't want to just leave him down here alone the rest of the night – besides, sleeping on this floor can't be comfortable. So, very carefully, I manage to get the ragdoll into my arms – surprised he doesn't wake up – and make it up to the first floor. I probably could make it to the second as well, but when I reach the den, I decide to give myself a break; I set him carefully on his back on the larger couch, double-checking his pillow situation, then cover him with one of the thin but warm fleece blankets usually draped over the back of the couch. I notice a few flurries outside, and even if it's not necessary, I start up a small fire in the fireplace before settling onto the smaller couch set up perpendicular to the one Noel's on. I don't need a cover personally; the fire several feet away is enough. He shifts once or twice in his sleep, but doesn't wake up. And after a while, with the rising sun and the peaceful crackle of the slowly dimming fire, I drift off myself.

Good thing I don't have to get up today.

Yeah, I'll admit it: I've always had a soft spot for Noel. We're both generally very friendly, outgoing people, and I'd seen it from him interacting with others since Day One. But he always got a little quieter around me, like he was nervous or something, or shier than he usually seemed. So I guess I sort of surmised early on that he, well, _liked_ me. Just a bit more than he liked most people. So he and I have always been close and affectionate, and I've always thought him to be the most adorable "little" guy I've ever known. Sure, Ryan's timid and cute too, but it's not quite the same to me. Noel's other qualities astound me, and I admire the guy for the art he can create.

Besides all that, he's just so _sweet_. It takes next to nothing to make him laugh, and he's got such a great one, too. Something stupid will happen – like someone, even himself, tripping slightly – and he'll just lose it. And then _I'll_ lose it just because _he's_ losing it, and that makes _him_ laugh harder, which makes _me_ laugh harder…So it goes.

And so it's gone for over three years now. But it wasn't until this past September that I realised just _how _close Noel and I had gotten. Or, well, how strongly I'd begun to feel about him, I should say.

Of course, it was instigated by Jen – what problem around here isn't? I came home after a long lecture to chug some iced tea in front of the fridge, and heard her whiney voice coming from the dining room – she was obviously in a bad mood (no news there) – and then I heard Noel in there as well, like trying to reason with her or something. So I paid a bit more attention.

"I just don't see why they have to put such an emphasis on these classes – they don't even matter!"

"Well, you _do_ need the credits to graduate. I know what you mean, though – if it's not up your alley, or important to your major, why should we waste the money taking courses that—"

"Oh, I don't care about the money."

"Well, okay, some people are more privileged than others and don't _have_ to think about the money—"

"Are you saying I'm a snob now? Just because I come from a wealthy family?"

"Well, no, just that you _wouldn't_ have to worry about—"

"That's _rich_ – no pun intended – coming from someone who doesn't like to be stereotyped!"

"I wasn't saying you're a snob, Jen, just that since you don't have to worry about money, you can afford to get all your credits…"

"Just because I'm rich, I can _buy_ my way to a degree?"

"Well…in a way, as long as we pass, isn't that what we're all doing?"

"You snide little jerk!"

"But it's _true_ – you _have_ to pay to go to school here, and you _have_ to pass to earn the credits—"

"You would know all about it, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, c'mon, I was _agreeing_ with you, Jen—"

"Throwing in my face that I'm a rich kid, like that makes you better somehow! In some backwards way! I'm not the one who was put on academic probation for failing chemistry. Even _I_ passed _that_ class, even if it's not linked to my major in any way! You're just an artsy-fartsy freak who got in here because you're _weird_ enough. Obviously the grades will filter out the people who _don't_ belong!"

There was a stunned silence from the other room, and I didn't realise how tightly I was squeezing the handle of my iced tea jug. Not even thinking, I marched right into the room – just as Noel turned his back to climb the winding staircase, head bowed so he didn't notice my presence.

"All right, then," he was saying over his shoulder, his voice oddly strained. "You're right. Don't listen to me…" And his legs disappeared up the stairs.

There was a huff of annoyance beside me and I looked over to see Jen raking her fingers through her hair, her face bright red and lips tight in fury.

"Little brat…" It took her a few seconds to see me. "What do _you_ want – h-hey!"

She jumped when my hand met her throat, and even if I didn't put any real pressure behind it, it shut her up. She gaped at me in silence as I glared at her.

"What the _fuck_ was that about?" I demanded quietly, with a sharp edge to my growl.

She stammered slightly and I pushed her back a few steps – not letting go, but still not squeezing either.

"I didn't hear one negative word against you come out of his mouth," I sneered. "And you dare to call him names and put him down? That kid's ten times smarter, twenty times hotter, and a _hundred_ times more talented than you'll _ever_ hope to be. You're damn right grades will weed out those of us who _don't belong here_. If I hear you say or do _one single thing_ against him, _ever_ again, I swear to you – I don't care if I get thrown out of here, or thrown in jail – you _will_ pay for it. And you know just how much I _adore_ you – so all I need is _one_ reason. You got me, bitch?"

Eyes wide as saucers, she nodded rigidly, and I dropped my hand. She let out a dramatic breath, as if I _had_ been strangling her, and backed away from me in fear, as I continued glaring her down.

A second later, the door to Traci and Brad's apartments opened and our leader stuck his head out, eyes set on Jen instantly.

"Jen, my office – _now_." His glance flickered toward me. "Something wrong, Si?" he asked in a voice I knew by then meant he _knew_ what had happened – _everything_…I was just glad he let me finish my threat before interfering.

I kept a somber face but shook my head. "Nope. Not with me. But I think I'll go see how Noel is."

He nodded his consent, adding, "Let him know I need to see him too, when he's ready."

I left a then-shivering Jen to meet her doom with the director as I went upstairs to hunt down Noel.

It wasn't hard to find him – went straight to his room and knocked, even more irritated by Jen's earlier behaviour when I heard his shaky voice call, "Go 'way…Wanna be 'lone."

I opened the door anyway, glad to see Zach wasn't there, and found the kid splayed on his belly on his bed, face buried in a pillow, only the dim light by his bed illuminating a shred of his side.

"Hey," I said gently. "That even apply to _me?_"

He froze up for a second, then his body relaxed (slightly) again. I heard a faint sniffle and he amended, "Well…if you…if you wanna…come in…I'm not much company right now though…"

I closed the door behind me quietly and tip-toed to his bed, sitting on the edge. "Oi, mate…Listen, don't pay her no mind. Jen's a braindead twat, we all know that by now—"

But his sniffle cut me off as his head flopped to one side. "She's right," he moaned, hugging his pillow tighter. "I've no right to be here – I'm just an idiot. I'm so bloody thick, dunno how I ever got in here—"

"Well," I cut him off before he could get any further insults in, "it certainly wasn't from the wallet in your daddy's back pocket, that's for damn sure."

He paused, then let out a sigh. "Traci must've just fucked up—"

"You know Traci – he _doesn't_ fuck up. You're here for a reason, Noel: you're _gifted_—"

"I am not!" he exclaimed suddenly, hiccupping right after to prove the tears he was trying to hide. "I'm a stupid idiot, I can't understand the simplest things – I can barely understand people here when they talk, I can't keep up—"

"You know that's not true—"

"It _is!_ I'm just…I can't have all those intellectual discussions the others do, I get lost or bored."

I quirked an eyebrow at his back, whether he could see me or not. "_We've_ had some pretty riveting conversations. Maybe not about chemistry or whatever, and I don't just mean the times you make me nearly piss meself laughing…Seriously, you've got more depth than you give yourself credit for—"

"No," he protested again, as if not even hearing me. "I'm just so bloody _stupid_…"

When he finally trailed off, holding his head in his hands like nursing a migraine, I gingerly put my own hand on his shuddering back, startling him a little as I leaned over his shoulder.

"That's bullshit and you know it, Noel," I told him, rather kindly for the words I chose. Before he could protest again, I went on, "Maybe you struggle with some subjects – but that's okay. We're not all, like, _geniuses_ in _every_ area. I don't know the first thing about anatomy, and, bloody hell, once Matt starts ranting about space and time, my brain starts hurting. Even if it's interesting and I _want_ to follow along, I just can't keep up sometimes. I'm more an inner-workings sorta person. But I _do_ belong here—"

"Of course you do," he cut in. "Not only are you smart like _that_, but you're a brilliant musician!"

"And _you_," I said pointedly, tapping his shoulder with a finger, "are a brilliant _artist_. I've seen your work – the sketches, the paintings, the photography, even the costumes you and Gwen helped design for the drama productions. Even when you and Russell go back and forth, making up comedy bits or whatever – you're _quick_, mate, your wit and imagination are beyond most people's comprehension! Noel, you _are_ gifted. And not everyone in the House likes chatting about…I dunno…light years and black holes and surgery and genetics…So you had some trouble with one class that just wasn't interesting or understandable to you – so what? You got tutoring and took it again, you did _more_ than what you _needed_ to. You didn't _have_ to retake it, could've gone for something simpler, chosen a different elective, as it wasn't part of your major – but you _did_, you spent most of your entire bloody _summer_ here slogging through that class _again_. That takes balls."

"Sounds more like a pathetic attempt to prove I'm not stupid," he muttered into his pillow. "And I don't even think it helped – must've failed it _again_ too."

"After all that work you put into it? I hardly think so."

He was quiet for a bit finally, and I caught a glimpse of him nibbling on his thumb over his shoulder.

I continued, "You're tons more worthy of being here than that tart downstairs. So don't let anything she says matter – it's all white noise, static, that comes from that nasty mouth. Listen to _mine_, 'cause _I'm_ smarter than _her_."

He chuckled slightly. "Well…that _is_ true…"

"I am," I insisted proudly. "So when I say you're special, you're nowhere near _stupid_, and you _do_ belong here, I'm obviously the one who's right. Aye?"

He let out another soft giggle, and taking that as a yes, I shifted my hand down next to his, catching his pinky with my own.

"Aye?" I urged again.

He hesitated for one shy moment, then flexed his little finger around mine. "Aye."

As if to prove my point, he went downstairs to see Traci then, and learned that he had aced his summer chemistry course – thereby relieving him of academic probation. The boy was ecstatic, leaping onto my back when he found me later to tell me.

Funnily enough, whilst Noel was in there with Traci, I happened to walk through the den to hear Jen (I kept my head low to avoid contact) wailing to Allison (who's just too sympathetic sometimes) that _she_ was now on academic probation – because her grade in drama – _her major_ – was a very low D by then.

Not only that, but Traci had apparently reamed her out as well for picking on Noel, warning her that if she did it again, to _anyone_, he would kick her out for meddling in the academic affairs of other students. _And _she had to go see Dr. Barrowman, her instructor, about her own new academic probation. (Okay, so I stopped at the top of the staircase to eavesdrop and get the _whole_ story…)

Imagine that! She went and picked on Noel for failing a class he wouldn't have chosen to take anyway because he clearly isn't keen on science – and this tart can't even keep an _average_ grade in her elected field of study! I suppose there _is_ justice in the world…

That's the memory I wake to when I hear him yawning from the couch beside the one I'm in later that morning. I open my eyes and glance back at him with a small smile as he ruffles his hair, looking around himself in confusion. Then he turns to me and blinks.

"How'd we get up here?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Magic."


End file.
